


Mosaic

by daggerpen



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Mentally Ill Character, M/M, Minor Ableist Language, Tags May Change, bipolar!Anders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run with Anders after Kirkwall, Hawke never even wants to think about red lyrium or templars again. But when a chance encounter with Stroud brings up lingering questions, the former Champion of Kirkwall finds himself pulled into an investigation that spans the breadth of Thedas, with the Grey Wardens at the center of it all. Canon-compliant up through the end of Inquisition, will contain Inquisition spoilers. M!Hawke/Anders focused, additional f!Tabris/king!Alistair and f!Lavellan/Josephine as they come in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Hawke desperately needed a hot meal, a bath, and a proper mattress, in that order.

The past few months had been thoroughly miserable, even by the standards the fugitive had established over the last several years. He’d honestly lost track of how long it had been since they last managed to make a real stop in any of the towns they’d passed. Even with the occasional trader they’d found on the road, their supplies were running dangerously low, and with the roads suddenly positively crawling with templars, they’d hardly even managed to keep a camp for more than a night. He couldn’t begin to count how many check-in letters he had to have missed by now - Varric must have been climbing the walls waiting for news. And to top it off, his chest was bothering him again, the old wound the Arishok had given him flaring back to life with the cold damp of their surroundings.

Anders wasn’t doing any better. His lover looked half dead on his feet - more so than usual, at any rate - as they stumbled along the overgrown forest path, brambles snagging tears in their already badly abused cloaks. Between the templars, his increasingly frequent Warden nightmares, and the ever-present Justice, the man had barely slept in weeks. Hawke almost wanted to just stop in the nearest clearing, get at least a few hours’ rest, but his pack was feeling worryingly light, and they were so close to their goal.

A little tavern in the middle of nowhere, according to the map he’d found on the last bandit group that had tried to rob them. A small travelers’ respite, certainly off the radar of any templars, or anyone but a few scattered wayfarers. Perfect for their purposes.

If they could just find the damned thing. “We must be nearly there by now,” Hawke said aloud, for the fourth time in as many hours. Anders just grunted in response, leaning heavily against his staff. “Maybe it's time to join up with the main road,” he continued. “We can get our bearings, and there shouldn’t be too many travelers around this time of night...”

His partner shook his head, opening his mouth to reject the offer before stopping, seeming to think it over. Hawke shot him a pleading glance. “... we can take a look, I suppose,” Anders capitulated, and Hawke sighed with relief.

Their stomachs were growling by the time they rejoined the weedy gravel path that passed for the main road. Hawke resisted the urge to break into their meager rations - there was no telling how well they would be able to restock once they reached the inn, and beyond that, it would have been difficult to content himself with jerky and hardtack with the promise of a proper meal on the horizon.

“Do you hear voices?” Anders’ question startled him out of his thoughts, and Hawke raised a hand to his eyes, squinting against the sunset. Now that Anders had mentioned it, he could hear the murmur of conversation in the distance - and see smoke trailing through the treelines.

“Perfect!  See, I told you.” The pair walked towards the noise, and Hawke was surprised by how loud the chatter was growing, how many voices were tangling together - until they crested the hill, and saw the crowd spread out before them.

For a moment, they just stared at the teeming mass of travelers. The inn was clearly filled nearly to bursting, the more ragged of their numbers forced out back onto the road. Anders and Hawke looked at each other nervously, and thoughtlessly, Hawke pulled the map back out, glancing back between it and the inn as though it would bring some measure of clarity.

“I hadn’t realized this was such a… tourist attraction,” he said slowly.

“There's too many of them. We should get out of sight,” Anders said, pulling his hood lower over his face.

“That’s going to make it hard to get a room,” Hawke replied, earning a glower from his lover. Undeterred - and more than a bit spurred on by the complaints of his stomach - he swung an arm over Anders’ shoulders, pulling him gently along. “Come on. We still have coin, we can lose ourselves in the crowd. This will work. We’re just a pair of traveling mercenaries, stopping for a rest. Mercenaries who desperately need supplies.” He was silent for a beat. “And a bath. Yes, definitely a bath.”

Anders rolled his eyes, but Hawke could see the twitch at the corner of his lips, and, encouraged, he walked them towards the low building.

True to his predictions, the crowd paid the new arrivals little mind as they pushed through the doors, navigating to the counter with some difficulty. To their dismay, there were no more rooms available, even shared with another patron, but Hawke was at least able to bargain for supplies, use of a tub upstairs, and, most importantly, two servings of hot soup.

“I don’t understand,” Hawke commented to Anders once they’d found space enough to sit with their meals. He scanned the room over his bowl, taking in the weary and bedraggled travelers crowding the building. The sight brought an odd pang of familiarity, and he was forcibly reminded of their flight from Ferelden a full ten years ago, recognizing the weary, vacant looks on the faces that surrounded him. Refugees. But from what? They hardly looked Orlesian, and at any rate, they were rather far north for refugees from the civil war. “What happened to these people?”

“You mean you don’t know?” came a voice from behind him, and Hawke turned towards the speaker, a tired-looking young man. “What, did you miss the templars crawling the roads for anyone who even looks like a mage sympathizer? The apostates fireballing everything in sight?”

Anders and Hawke shot each other nervous glances. “... we know the Circles have been rebelling, but-”

“That’s just it. There are no more Circles,” the man replied, weary. “The mages and the templars broke away from the Chantry, and they’ve been fighting ever since. It’s war now. Maker help us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, now that you're at least mildly invested in the fic, it's time for the long author's note.
> 
> So I'm new to the fandom and have just finished Inquisition, which of course means this is the perfect time to start an epic speculative fic. First names and appearances of the PCs will be kept as vague as possible, but they are all custom, so don't be surprised if I wind up dropping a reference to Hawke's face tattoos, giving up and calling my Tabris "Queti" in narration, etc.
> 
> As for timeline bookkeeping: so the exact details of the time between Hawke and co. fleeing Kirkwall and Hawke’s appearance in Inquisition are, unsurprisingly, rather vague. We know that Hawke mentions him and Anders breaking off on their own in an attempt to force the Divine’s forces to hunt for them and head off a potential Exalted March on Kirkwall, and during that time helping some of the Circles revolt, but by the time of the Conclave it seems like the two of them aren’t particularly involved in anything, and are just officially off everyone’s radar - plus, as I understand it, they have all of zero role in Asunder, due to Bioware not wanting to lock any Hawke decisions in as “canon.” All of this gives me the picture of Hawke and Anders as kind of independent agents, moving from Circle to Circle but not really having any contact with the larger mage rebellion between those periods. For the sake of maximum dramatic effect, I have here taken them from one of their isolated-while-on-the-move periods, choosing to drop in exactly when they find out about the aftermath of Asunder. Possibly I have totally screwed up the timeline - we'll see. Please let me know of any glaring errors.


	2. A Healer's Touch

_Anders has been out of the Wardens three weeks when he sells his earring. Pure gold, a personal treasure of no small value. It barely fetches him enough for the journey, a long voyage to Kirkwall in the cramped hull of a small smuggler ship. With the Blight over, the flood of refugees out of Ferelden has largely died down, and it’s no longer so easy for an apostate mage to lose himself among the crowd._

_It had been a gift. Warden-Commander Tabris had given a lot of them, to both him and his fellow Wardens back at Amaranthine. “I’m a giver,” she’d said when asked, with that wry grin of hers. “Besides, if you’re going to be marching off to battle with a handhold like that, you might as well do it in style.”_

_She’d teased him like that a lot. About his earring, his robes, his general vanity. Rich words, he’d countered, from the woman who kept stopping in the Deep Roads to do her eyeshadow. She’d always laughed at that, him giving as good as he got. She was so careful with her words then, a silver tongue and measured diplomacy winning over those around her, and Anders had wondered if she didn’t enjoy the opportunity to cut loose._

_Maker, he misses her. Misses all of them. Nathaniel, Velanna, Sigrun, even Oghren. And, in a very different way… Justice._

_He can feel the spirit inside him, restless with inaction. Or at least, he assumes it’s Justice’s doing. Anders is no stranger to impatience, restless, manic energy, but the sheer focus of the drive within him is foreign, threatening to overwhelm him. Justice had told him once that Fade spirits had no real concept of time, of waiting for the moment to strike. He supposes that must be what he’s feeling._

_But there’s nothing he can do now, he reminds himself - both of them - pacing the floor of the dingy Darktown chamber he’s made his temporary refuge. Not until Karl contacts him again._

_A scream from outside tears him in two, instincts split down the middle, run, hide, leave, help, and he doubles over, feeling the crackle of the Fade in his eyes. It’s Darktown, he tells himself._ _This kind of thing happens all the time, he's told. He'll only draw attention to himself getting involved._

_The scream repeats, then chokes off, and before he knows it he’s out the door, staff in hand._

_He’s too late to stop the muggers, heels disappearing around the corner just as he rounds into the alley, but their victim is still there. He’s an older man, not quite yet grandfatherly, streaks of grey encroaching at the edges of his hairline and red soaking the fabric of his rags. Three slashes cross his chest, deep, one trailing up onto his throat, and he chokes, curled in on himself and staring up with wide, glassy eyes. Another refugee. How much could those men have even gotten from him?  What had been worth_ **this _?_**

_He looks around, scanning the street behind him warily. A handful of beggars, merchants selling who knows what. All of them must have heard. They couldn’t possibly have not. But not a single damned person comes over to help, even looks their way._

_Anders swears, every invective he can think of and some he invents on the spot falling from his lips, blinking back blue from his eyes, shaking himself. He can’t. It’s foolish, dangerous, stupid, mad, and then the man’s eyes roll back in his head, and Anders’ hand is to his wounds, the glow of healing lighting the walls._

_The effort is exhausting, but weirdly invigorating, and Anders doesn’t know if it’s Justice or him who feels the deep satisfaction as skin knits itself over, hardly even scarring under his careful efforts. Healing had always come naturally to him, and there’s something comforting in the familiarity, in leaving a man_ **whole** _again._

_He breaks himself out of it as his impromptu patient begins to come to. He can’t be caught, won’t allow himself to be taken back to the Circle, or worse, not now. But when he turns to leave, a hand reaches out, catching his sleeve, and the man he’s saved stares at him with a wide, disbelieving look._

_He lets out a bellow of surprise._

_Behind him, the beggars are staring._

_Anders_ **runs** _. Tearing himself away, he bolts back for his hiding place, slamming the door behind him. What had he been thinking? What had he been thinking? Who knows who’d seen him? How long does he even have before the templars come for him? He moves frantically, throwing the meager possessions he has into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, then heading for the door._

_He jumps back as a woman’s figure greets him. One of the beggars. She’s seen, he knows she has. Anders’ hands fly up, flames springing to life around his fingers, and the woman mirrors his reaction, arms flying up to cover her face._

_“Don’t hurt me!” she cries, shielding herself. “I just want to talk! Don’t hurt me!”_

_She’s shaking, shoulders trembling, her fear sending his own stomach lurching - she’s afraid, of course she is, everyone always is, not that he’s really helped matters - but there’s an edge of desperation in her voice that makes him falter._

_At his hesitation, she spares a glance through her upraised hands, visibly steeling herself. “Please - there aren’t any healers here, I’d given up hope,” she manages, voice trembling. Heart in his throat, Anders lets the magic slide away, though he doesn’t lower his hands._

_She swallows. Slowly lets her arms fall. “I- yes, I saw what you did, but I won’t tell the templars, I swear! It’s - please, my daughter… she’s sick, and the Chantry won’t help, we can’t even get into Hightown- I’d given up hope,” she repeats, then breaks off. Near frantic, she begins digging at her waist, pulling out a handful of coppers and offering them. “I don’t have much, but you can have everything, just-”_

_“You want my help?” Anders interrupts, disbelieving. She’d followed an obvious apostate, a man capable of who knows what, a man she’s barely seen for… healing? How desperate is this woman?_

_She nods mutely, voice failing her at last. Anders can feel the flare of Justice within him once more, and comes to a decision. With a gentle touch, he presses her fingers closed. “Keep your coin,” he says, “And bring her here.”_

_Maybe there’s something he can do now, after all._

 

* * *

 

“There’s nothing we can do, Anders,” Hawke told him, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Anders shrugged it off, still staring at the crowd of refugees. Hawke shook him more sharply. “An-” he began, loudly, before breaking off, glancing around nervously and continuing in a lower tone. “Love, I know, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“Since when do you have a problem with helping people?” Anders snapped, then regretted it immediately. Hawke always helped when he could, no matter how he liked to complain. It was Anders' fault he had to hold back now.

“Since it might get _you_ killed,” Hawke replied in an even tone. “You heard what everyone’s been saying. If anyone realizes you’re an apostate - let alone _which_ apostate - they’ll sell us all out to the templars for a hope of protection. And if they don’t, and the templars hear about it, they’ll kill _everyone_ , and I think we can agree that’s even worse.” He folded his arms, looking anywhere but at the topic of their discussion, and Anders could see how much it was bothering him. He balled his fists, staring back at the refugee group.

The child coughed again, curling up around himself.

He was shaking, sweating with the fever. Infection, from the jagged tear on his arm. Without treatment, he’d be lucky to last a few more days. Anders knew exactly what to do, could feel the magic pooling in his hands, eager to work. He’d treated similar cases hundreds of times before.

And he couldn’t

Do

Anything.

 His vision flashed blue, and he doubled over briefly, hands flying to his head. Hawke was beside him in an instant, hands on his shoulders.

 “Anders,” he whispered, quiet, urgent. Anders clamped his hands over his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. Not here. Not now. “Anders,” Hawke repeated. “Do we - do we need to get out of here?”

 Anders shook his head. “No! No, I-” He forced himself to straighten, glancing around. His attack had, at least, gone largely unnoticed, the one or two who had turned to stare losing interest quickly. More than enough sickness to go around. “... this is my fault,” he muttered.

 Hawke’s face was a mix of concern and unease. “Is it? And here I thought it was the templars… not an easy mistake to make, but-”

 “Don’t deflect,” Anders interrupted. “Or do you think I had no hand in this?”

 Hawke shifted, expression falling. For a moment, Anders could see the hurt, the old pain still fresh after three years. Guilt. Betrayal. He had never agreed, Anders knew. No matter how his heart bled for the mages, no matter how he had tried, he’d never seen the necessity of that final step.

 In a way, Anders was glad for it. It was better, that this be his burden alone. He would never, could never want Hawke to be anything but himself - loud, yes, irreverent, glib but never for a second able to turn away anyone in need.

 No matter how he tried.

 “I think...  maybe… this was always going to happen,” he said in a low tone, dropping the pretense of humor. “And even if I… don’t care for how it began… perhaps it needed to.”

 “It needed to,” Anders agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I have to care for all of it.”

 Hawke had no counter to that. As one, they turned back to the ailing child, and Anders squared his shoulders. “I’m going over there,” he said. “Maybe I can pretend to be an herbalist or something…”

 “No, wait,” Hawke stopped him. “I- all right, you’ve convinced me. But… I have a plan.”

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Hawke whispered, coming to crouch beside him.

 Anders turned, disbelieving. “This was your idea!”

 “Because yours was even worse,” Hawke replied, and Anders gave him a short glare through the dim light before turning back to their goal.

 “They have lookouts,” Anders said, dismayed.

 “To be expected. No telling who might target a group like this. Bandits. Cutthroats. Idiot apostates and their dumber lovers.”

 “We should have asked to camp with them,” Anders continued, ignoring him.

 “I don’t think that would have fit with the whole ‘inconspicuous’ goal. If you’d forgotten, you kind of… glow when you sleep.”

 “I mean that we could have agreed to take watch.”

 “That wouldn’t have worked. They’d never let just one group take watch, we could rob them all while they slept.”

 “And then it would have been one less guard to deal with, and we’d have a better lie if we were caught.”

 “That- I- uh-” Hawke trailed off. “So, don’t you have a sleep spell or something?”

 Anders barely choked down the laugh. “I do,” he said, and waved a hand.

 It took more out of him than he was expecting. He’d have enough to complete his task without resorting to the vial of lyrium in his bag, but it would be cutting it closer than he’d have liked.

 “How long will they be out?” Hawke asked, which surprised Anders until he realized how rarely the man had ever seen him use the spell outside of more… combat oriented situations.

 “There’s no duration. They’re asleep,” he explained. “They’ll be out until they wake up.”

 "Oh," Hawke said, and then they were on the move.

 Anders was no stranger to sneaking around. Fifteen or so years in the Circle, seven escape attempts and almost nine years on the run had altogether left him with a rather light tread. So while he could hardly compare to Hawke’s proclivity for stealth, Anders was able to make it over to the ailing child with little incident, something aided by the way the family had secreted themselves on the edge of the large camp. Rolling up his sleeves, he set to it.

 Hawke held a cloak over his hands as he worked, hiding the faint light of his magic. Anders found that a little funny - though, given that Hawke _was_ better at this than he was, perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to write it off.

The work wasn’t easy. The pair froze with every movement in the camp, every choked off snore and half-asleep murmur, and, of course, every labored breath from his patient. The infection was nasty, and Anders could see the beginning of blood poisoning creeping at the edges of the wound. With limited options in the way of poultices, Anders had to rely largely on his own magic, draining his reserves deeply.

The work wasn’t easy. But eventually, slowly, the boy’s breath evened out, the wound closing, his forehead becoming cool to the touch.

 His eyes flickering open.

 Anders would, later, lay the blame entirely on Hawke. After all, while there was no telling what the child might have done otherwise, Anders was fairly sure that it would not have been “thrash around wildly, screaming with surprising volume despite everything,” which was the fairly foreseeable result of the hand Hawke had hastily clamped over his mouth in panic.

The mother, of course, was up in an instant, wasting no time in setting on the pair in a misguided but noble defense of her child. The former Champion of Kirkwall stumbled backwards, tripping over the bedroll of the man behind him.

Things spiraled rather quickly after that. They almost escaped in the chaos, aided by a timely mind blast, but with Anders running low on mana, Hawke out of his various flasks, and the pair loath to seriously hurt the refugees over an admittedly suspicious misunderstanding, they found themselves completely surrounded by a confused, angry mob in disturbingly little time.

“All right, I admit it,” Hawke said, hands raised in a desperate gesture of surrender. “Maybe this shouldn’t have been our Plan A.”

“Do you think so?” Anders replied.

“A mage!” one of the refugees called out.

“What was he doing here?” another asked.

“Who cares?” came a third voice. “Do you want the templars to think we’re hiding apostates? Kill them!”

In an instant, Hawke was in front of him, blades in hand. The refugees murmured amongst themselves, arguing back and forth, and Anders was nearly about to down his lyrium potion and hope for the best when a voice cried out from behind him-

“Wait!”

As one, all eyes turned to see the boy’s mother, kneeling with her son clutched to her chest. “You- you healed him,” she said, disbelieving. “Why - why would you heal him?”

“I-” Anders began, but trailed off with a shrug. Hawke did not lower his blades, still watching the crowd warily, but the level of hostility at least seemed to have muted somewhat, from confusion if nothing else.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, finally, a voice broke the air- “I got my leg in a trap on the way here. Could you take a look at it?”

Anders didn’t even have time to process the request before another rounded on the man. “Are you crazy? The templars will have our heads!”

“They’ll have our heads for looking at 'em the wrong way! Might as well get some healing while we’re here!”

“The Chantry says-”

“Hang the Chantry, not one of them’s had room for any of us-”

“My sister’s been vomiting the whole trip, she needs-”

“- not risking the templars-”

“My shoulder-”

“-find it kind of suspicious, how they were-”

“I'm not letting a bunch of ruddy apostates-”

“Enough!” Hawke yelled. “Enough! Maker, and you lot wonder why we were sneaking around?” Swords still raised, he gestured towards the crowd. “We’ve been on the road as long as any of you. We’re cold and hungry and damned tired! We saw the boy was dying and wanted to help, but we were worried how you’d react. And for good reason, clearly!” Hawke pointed towards the hills. “Now, we are going to go, and leave you alone. And if we come back in the morning and don’t see any templars, and there are still people who need healing, we’ll be happy to see what we can do.” He brandished his weapons. “Unless any of you have a problem with that?”

Anders didn’t dare breathe. Slowly, cautiously, they walked out of the camp, Hawke pointedly keeping himself between Anders and the more aggressive members of the crowd. Once they were clear, despite their deep-set exhaustion, they took off at a run.

It took them a while to be sure they weren't followed. Eventually, breathless, they collapsed in the clearing they’d staked out, staring at each other.

"Well,” Hawke said slowly. “That ended about as badly as could have been expected."

"I healed the boy," Anders said. “And we got out alive. I call that a win.”

"True. And at least we got that bath earlier! Now if we fight our way through a templar ambush tomorrow, all the blood will be fresh!”

“There’s always a bright side,” Anders replied, deadpan.

Hawke’s lips twitched. Anders started to chuckle. And then they were both laughing, doubling themselves over with the hysterics.

“Oh Maker… I can’t believe I thought that would work-” Anders choked out.

“We were doing pretty well until the boy woke up-”

“Which you helped with how?”

“At least I tried something! What were you doing?”

“I was going to put him back to sleep, you idiot!”

“That… would have been better, yes!”

They broke off into laughter again, chuckling on and off until they eventually settled into a warm silence.

Anders couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed like this.

“Oh… what are we going to do now?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Hawke said. “But I was planning on getting some sleep. Whatever happens tomorrow… it’s going to be a long day.”


	3. That Madman from Kirkwall

He woke up with Anders beside him.

This was a rare occurrence. Even back in Kirkwall, when things were at their best and disaster seemed so far away, he had hardly ever managed to wake before Anders, the mage rising early to tend to his clinic. And on the run? There had been watch to keep, nightmares and sleepless nights and midnight escapes when the templars drew too near. But last night, they’d been too exhausted to do more than string some alarm traps alongside the paths to their small clearing before passing out, despite…

Despite…

Hawke’s eyes flew open, scanning the camp. No sign of any intruders, or any traps disturbed. He could hardly believe it. They'd exposed themselves to an entire camp. No one had followed? No one had sent templars? And yet, their surroundings were untouched. Hawke supposed someone could still be lying in wait, but really, why would any would-be ambushers wait for them to wake up? Some strange sense of honor? If so, they’d hopefully be patient enough for him to let Anders get at least another hour or two of rest.

Except, of course, that the mage was already stirring, blinking against the sun trailing through the canopy above. “Hawke?” he murmured blearily.

“It’s nothing,” he said, resting a hand against the man’s forehead. “Just taking a moment to check the traps. Go back to sleep.”

But it was too late. Anders pushed himself up, staring at the bits of sky poking through the canopy. Hawke couldn’t help but notice that, despite the full night’s sleep, the bags under the mage’s eyes had only darkened.

“The sun’s up,” Anders said. “We should get to the camp.”

It took Hawke nearly a full minute to realize what Anders was talking about. “... Maker, are you holding me to that? I just said that to get us out of there.”

“And you didn’t mean it?” Anders asked as he extricated himself from the bedroll.

“... well, certainly not the ‘morning’ part. In fact, I’m certain I said ‘afternoon.’ Or perhaps ‘evening’? Yes, that was it. We’ll come back in the evening, and if we don’t see any templars, we’ll tend to anyone left, so really, you may as well go back to slee- _mrmph_ ,” he cut off as Anders interrupted him with the kiss.

“You talk too much,” Anders informed him, dropping the bedroll into his arms.

“With encouragement like that, who wouldn’t?” he retorted.

They grew more serious as they neared the camp itself, Hawke insisting on scouting ahead before they made any further moves. Most of the refugees seemed to have moved on, fortunately, and there was no sign of templars amongst the stragglers.

It was fairly obvious that his hasty parting words last night had indeed been taken seriously by those remaining. Nearly everyone left in the camp was wounded to some degree, or tending to someone who was. Maker, either it was quite a trap or they really _were_ desperate, and he doubted it was the former. They’d never go to such lengths to capture one apostate, not when the roads were apparently crawling with them. Well, unless they’d realized exactly who that apostate _was_ , but Hawke wasn’t going to dwell on that possibility.

He nodded to Anders, gesturing him closer. “All right. Your clinic awaits.”

 

* * *

 

_“Is there anything I can do to help?”_

_Hawke drapes himself over Anders’ shoulders, watching the mage work. The clinic’s been deserted for at least an hour now, but his lover has yet to turn in for the night, hands stained with crushed elfroot as he makes poultice after poultice._

_‘Lover.’ Hawke’s still getting used to that, rolling the word around on his tongue again and again until the strangeness has worn off. Eight days now. Eight days since their first kiss, their first night together. Eight days since he’d invited Anders into his home, promised to live openly alongside an apostate._

_Not that he’s counting, or anything._

_“You don’t have any herbalist training, right?” Anders asks, not looking up as he speaks._

_“Well, no, but it can’t be that hard, can it?” Hawke asks. “You hand me something and I grind. Easy enough.”_

_The look Anders shoots him tells him it is not, in fact, that easy, but at Hawke’s pleading look he sighs and gestures across the room. “Grab a chair and I’ll show you the basics.”_

_An hour later, he’s staring at his fourth failed poultice with as much disbelief as he can muster. Anders’ muffled laughter hardly helps._

_“It takes time,” he reassures him, gently tugging the bowl away. “There’s an art to it.”_

_“How is this happening?” Hawke laments. “Defeated by leaves. I’ve beaten a dragon, you know. You were there, you remember.”_

_“Your battle prowess is unmatched,” Anders agrees, planting a kiss on his cheek. “And you’re paying for the replacement ingredients, you know. Now, do you want to try it again, or should we call it a night?”_

_Hawke is a proud man. He’s never been one to admit defeat easily, even when he really should. But Anders’ warm hand on the back of his neck reminds him of the reason he'd come in the first place, and when the implication of Anders’ words hits him, he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to stand._

_"I was afraid you'd never ask.”_

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, he’d been worried for no reason. The refugees were nothing but grateful, and Hawke soon found himself running back and forth between the camp and the forest, bringing back whatever useful materials he could scrounge as Anders settled in.

It was all so painfully familiar. Anders flitting from patient to patient, exhausted but driven, in his element like nowhere else, and Hawke hovering on the sidelines, unable to offer more than the occasional handful of herbs.

He hated that, sometimes. One of the few places Anders was truly at home, and he could never be a part of it.

“You two are very… strange,” came a voice, and he turned to see the mother of the boy Anders had healed last night. Hawke was surprised to realize she’d stayed - he glanced over towards the child, making sure he hadn’t worsened since their last visit. He certainly looked as healthy as could be expected - to Hawke’s eyes, anyway.

“His name is Martin,” she said. “And... I’m Kaete.”

“Uh, right.” Hawke offered an awkward hand. “Kestrel. And my companion is Marcher.”

“You sound Fereldan.”

“We are. Were. It’s been a long time. We’re mercenaries.” There was no trace of hesitation as he spoke; they’d had years to come up with the covers they needed. “We came across the sea during the Blight, and we’ve been taking odd jobs ever since. But with this mess, no one wants to touch us. So we’ve mostly just been traveling.”

"And you're not charging anything for this? What kind of mercenaries are you? "

"Oh, see, the healing is free - we only charge for the killing."

"That doesn't seem like a sound business model."

"Well, I think it's preferable to the other way around,” Hawke said, which got him a small smile. After a moment, he added. “I’m, ah, sorry about last night. We’d have asked, but people have reacted badly before, and… well, it wasn’t the best plan we’ve had.”

“I’m having trouble holding it against you,” Kaete said dryly, and Hawke laughed at that. “So he’s been free all this time? He’s not from the Circles?”

“Not for a very long time. Why all the questions?”

“He saved my son’s life. I can’t be curious?” She fell silent briefly. “I guess I just hadn’t really thought about it. I’ve never met a mage before, unless you count the apostates who ambushed us on the way here.”

“Mages did that to your son?” he asked, surprised - there'd been no magic in the blade that carved that wound.

“No, we were lucky enough to get away. But when we ran into the templars… they accused us of being one of them. And when we tried to flee…” she shook her head. “Can you believe that? Templars. The swords of the Chantry - only they’re not any more, are they? It’s all gone wrong. The templars are supposed to protect us.”

“You and I have very different understandings of templars.”

“And mages, I suppose.” She turned to look across the camp, to where Anders was healing a girl’s broken leg. “I guess they can’t all be like that madman from Kirkwall, can they?”

Hawke let out a hiss of breath. “... no,” he said slowly, watching the blonde healer work. “No, I guess they can’t.”

 

* * *

 

“Is that all of them?” The mage didn’t look up as he spoke, slumped against the tree at the edge of the camp, hands trembling from exhaustion.

“I think so,” Hawke said, and slid down to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around his lover’s shoulders. “They’ve asked us to travel with them, you know.”

That got him a look. “They have?”

“It would seem they see some benefit in traveling with a pair of mercenaries. Especially when one of them’s a healer and they’re risking templars either way. They’re headed for Nevarra. The capitol, I mean.”

Anders grunted, and said nothing more. Hawke hesitated, and then spoke - “Listen, I’m sorry for being difficult earlier.”

“More specifically?”

“Last night. And this morning, I suppose. You were right. These people needed help. What’s a little risk compared to that?”

Anders shrugged. “You’re always difficult - don’t argue, you know you are. But when it comes down to it, you always do the right thing. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“Well, I’ll try to be a bit more lovable in the future,” Hawke said, and Anders laughed. “... I think we should go with them,” Hawke told him, more soberly. “We need to get to a city. This is as good a one as any.”

“... all right,” Anders agreed. “But I don’t think I’m up for much travel tonight.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Hawke replied, relieved. “We’ll camp here for the night. I’ll keep watch - don’t argue, I’m the most rested of any of us -  and you can get some sleep. If anyone asks about the glow, I’ll just tell them it’s a mage thing.”

“You're sure you’re up for watch?

“It’ll be fine. I’ve been half-napping all day. And besides, I still need to write that letter for Varric, don’t I?”


	4. Tidings from The Road

Varric,

Still not dead. Sorry it's taken so long to check in. I don't know if you've heard, but apparently, there's a war on, and messengers have been far and few between.

The better half is doing all right. We've had some trouble from _his_ better half, but nothing we can't handle.

We've been traveling with some refugees for a little while. Apparently, a couple of Fereldan mercenaries are handy to have on the roads, especially when one's an herbalist, if you take my meaning. I doubt we'll stay long, though - the templars seem to be targeting large groups, and we’ve agreed it'll be better for all of us if we go our separate ways when we get close to the city.

We're still headed north. We're between jobs after that affair in Hasmal, and our previous best employer seems to have, hm, dissolved? So we've no real aim at the moment. Try not to die of shock. We might see about dropping in on some other camps once we've resupplied, see if there's a use for us.

Hoping this letter finds you well. I'll check in again when we get to Nevarra,  
Chuckles

* * *

Chuckles,

Took you long enough, didn’t it? I was about ready to put together a search party - maybe get together a handful of refugees, I hear there are some idiots who’ll sign on to anything for enough coin.

Last letter I got, Sunshine was doing well. And yes, she’s still got that dog of yours looking out for her. I hear the ocean’s really agreeing with them both. She’s hoping to meet up, of course. I can’t say if that’d be for the best, but I’d write her soon either way.

Still no word from Broody or our Rivaini friend, but I wouldn’t worry about them. There’s a trail of sunken slaver ships a hundred miles long with their names all over it. As for Daisy, oh, the stories the elves in the Alienage tell. It sounds like she’s finally getting to help her people the way she’s always wanted. Good for her.

Things have been getting tense here. If you thought the templars were bad before, well… let’s just say that I’m starting to miss Meredith. Technically, without Chantry backing, they're not supposed to have any authority, but you can imagine how that's going over. The Guard-Captain is at her wit’s end. I almost wish I could hang this all on Blondie, but I have some suspicions of my own. And that’s all I’ll say for now - I don’t trust my couriers as much as I used to, and that’s saying something.

Speaking of idiot mages, though, have you _seen_ the newest in apostate chic? I’m not sure if I should be proud or ashamed. Probably both.

But seriously, keep Blondie out of trouble. We’re in over our heads enough as it is.

Wish I had better news for you.

-Varric

P.S. Did you get the book I sent _this_ time?

* * *

Varric,

Maker, don’t remind me of that particular fashion trend. I can only imagine how long it may take the bird population to recover from this tragic fate. That, or there are whole scores of naked, confused ravens stumbling around the forests.

Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad. Easy hunting, I imagine. Better than trail rations for certain. Have I ever mentioned how much I regret never picking up the bow? I don’t care how good you seem to think I am, there is no hunting with knives.

There's another letter attached to this. Please make sure it gets to my sister. In the meantime, keep me updated on the templar situation. We can start heading south if we have to.

Best,  
Chuckles

P.S. I have received no such document, but feel free not to send another. I can’t imagine why I’d want to read about this Champion, it sounds dreadfully boring. I am, however, eagerly awaiting the next installment of Swords and Shields.

* * *

Varric,

I seem to have missed your last letter. Possibly we arrived ahead of your messenger? I hope you're not too busy to write an old friend - or petty enough to pout over your lost book. Really, I’m grateful, but we hardly have time to read these days.

We're on our way to a little village along the Minanter River, where I hope we'll be be able to stay some time, if things are quiet enough. I’m beginning to forget what it feels like to sleep in a bed. We’ll stop back at Nevarra now and again to check for further news, so get writing.

Send Bianca my love,  
Chuckles

* * *

Varric,

We’re on the move again. North, this time. I don’t know where the next safe place will be, but I’ll try to contact you again from Trevis. It should take us a while to get there, so your messenger should have plenty of time.

Please have word waiting,  
Chuckles

* * *

Varric,

Send word before we mount a rescue mission.

I'm not joking. Write us. Publish something, anything, even more smut.

Just let us know everything's okay. We've been hearing strange things from back home.

Slightly worried,  
Chuckles

* * *

Chuckles,

Don't come.

-Varric


	5. Old Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys see that "Canon Mentally Ill" character tag up there and remember how Anders was deliberately coded as bipolar in DA2, and how bipolar disorder comes with depressive cycles?
> 
> So yeah, heads up for that, in both this chapter and the ones to come.

"That can't be all it says." As if to make sure, Anders turned the letter over, scanning the back.

“That’s all it says,” Hawke confirmed. “Three months with no word. Three months, and this is the first we hear of him. And that’s all it says.”

“He can’t mean it, can he?” Anders let the letter fall, shifting awkwardly on the hard wooden chair. They’d found the cabin a week or so back, seemingly abandoned by its previous owners, furniture and all. “If there’s trouble…”

“Oh, he means it, I’m sure. The question is, should we listen to him?” Hawke sighed, leaning back and staring at the mouldering ceiling. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t write more. He talked about not trusting his couriers in his last letter… maybe someone’s reading his letters? But that doesn’t make any sense. He’d write _more_ then, babble about things that make no sense and clue us in. Did he just not have time? Who doesn’t have time to write more than a sentence? You know how he likes to hear himself talk.” He shook his head. “All I can think is that he knows if he told us, we’d come. Which isn’t exactly promising.”

“It sounds like you’ve made up your mind, then,” Anders said. He sounded… resigned. Hawke could hardly blame him.

“I suppose I have.” He tried to smile. “No place like home?”

“No place like home,” Anders replied, deadpan.

“Kirkwall, here we come.”

* * *

 

They’re six hours from Kirkwall when they finally make camp, and Hawke can still smell the smoke.

It’s in his head. It must be. There is no, can be no persistent odor of burnt wood and flesh in the air, no lingering crackle of painfully familiar magic on his skin. Nothing but the heavy smell of wet earth and leaves, of the hills around them.

Maker, his chest hurts.

Their numbers are back down to six now. Aveline had said her farewells as soon as they were out of sight of the walls, determined to go back to her husband and salvage what could be had of her post. It was a risky gambit, to be certain, but Meredith’s attack was, technically, illegal, and with Donnic having protected citizens and guards alike, she’d had a case to keep her position. Hawke hopes she will. They shouldn’t all have their lives ruined by this.

None of them have spoken since they left the city, even Varric’s infamous verbosity failing him as they finally begin to absorb the magnitude of what they have done.

What Anders has done.

He keeps running the numbers in his head. He can’t seem to stop, no matter how he tries. How many people? How many had been in the Chantry when it had gone up? A city the size of Kirkwall has - had - dozens of clerics, easily, not to mention anyone who may have been in there to pray at the time. Or in the radius of the shrapnel.

There is no one here now without blood on their hands, Hawke knows. He’s always tried to avoid violence - or at least serious violence - where possible, but there are certainly plenty of deaths weighing his soul, not all of them strictly necessary. Varric has done all sorts of things to protect his family and his business. Fenris has left a trail of bodies across Thedas in pursuit of freedom, not to mention the mercenary work he had often taken when not with Hawke. Merrill dealt with a demon, began practicing blood magic, and ultimately killed her Keeper - and nearly, her clan. Isabela once ran off with a priceless Qunari relic and launched the invasion that left the Viscount dead and Kirkwall in ruins. Even Bethany, dear, sweet Bethany, did what she had to during their time with the smugglers.

Hawke tries to tell himself that this is no different.

He tries.

Anders is sitting at the edge of their camp, back to a tree and knees curled to his chest. He has the miserable, dead-eyed look of a melancholy fit that Hawke knows only too well, and despite it all, he wants nothing more than to go to his side, pull him close and just hold him.

And that, somehow, is the worst of it all. He can deal with anger. He can deal with betrayal. He can deal with concern. But all at once?

He wishes he could split himself in three. One Hawke to be gentle and caring, one to yell and be angry, and one to just curl up with a hot compress and figure out what in the name of Andraste they're going to do now.

Maker, what are they going to do now?

* * *

“What, exactly, are we going to do once we get there?”

“Something dreadfully heroic and ill advised, I’m sure.”

“Hawke.”

“Well, what do you want from me?” He turned. “We have no idea what’s happening there. We don’t know what’s happened to Varric, or anything but a few months-old rumors about a templar takeover. For all we know they’ve called that Exalted March after all. So yes, the first thing we’ll be doing once we get there is figuring out what we’re doing.”

“Oh, _brilliant_ plan. Why don’t we just hand ourselves over to the templars now?” Hawke could hear the irritation in the other man’s voice, and knew his temper was beginning to fray. As much as Hawke would have liked to blame that entirely on his own evasiveness, he knew better, knew that warning sign all too well. The closer they got to Kirkwall, the worse Anders had become.

He’d known something like this might happen. For as long as Hawke had known him, the mage had dealt with mood swings like this, pitching wildly back and forth between manic agitation and listless depression. He was, frankly, overdue for an episode by this point, and the added stress of returning to the city they’d once called home couldn’t be helping.

“Are we going to keep pretending this is about planning?” he asked in a low voice.

And there it was. Anders winced, glancing away. When the mage didn’t continue, Hawke sighed, and shrugged off his pack. “Let’s sit down for a bit,” he said. “I could use a rest.”

They sat in silence for a good, long while. Watching Anders out of the corner of his eye, Hawke carefully broke open their rations, eating slowly. Giving him time.

Eventually, he took it. “I never thought we’d be going back.”

“It wasn’t really at the top of my to-do list.”

“It could have been.”

“I doubt that.”

“Aveline did. Varric did.”

“And it’s been working out so well for them.” Hawke shook his head. “They were bystanders. They got caught up in it. I was the one leading the charge.”

“I started it.”

“And I was by your side the whole time.”

“You didn’t have to be. You didn’t have to spare me, you didn’t have to come with me.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. But somehow, I’m still here. I wonder, could that mean I _wanted_ to?”

“You wanted to spend your life as a fugitive? Living on the roads, sleeping in ditches?”

“I wanted to be with you. Whatever else it meant.”

Anders wasn’t looking at him. “I just thought I could keep you out of it. I thought-”

“What, that I’d kill you?” Hawke couldn’t keep the heat from his voice. “Because that would have been the only way to stay after that mess, and you know damned well I would never.”

“It would have been justice.”

“Too bad for him, I care more about Anders.”

“Don’t play at words.”

“Enough! Just-” Hawke ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Maker, Anders, it’s been three years. Are you ever going to accept that I knew what I was doing? That I chose this?”

“It’s been three years. Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“I do forgive you!”

“No, you love me. You’re just trying to convince yourself that’s the same thing.”

Hawke had no answer for that. He couldn’t look at the mage, staring at his hands.

His chest hurt.

Anders stood again, grabbing his staff. He looked… weary. "It's getting late. We should make camp,” he said.

“Yeah. Of course.”

* * *

 

“Do you truly have nothing to say?” Low as it is, Anders’ voice cuts sharply through the still night air.

It’s the first they’ve spoken to each other in two days.

“What?”

“Just say it,” Anders continues, and there’s desperation in his voice now. “Yell at me, scream at me. It’s the least I deserve. Just please… talk to me.”

Hawke is silent for a long, long moment. “You lied to me,” he says at last. That shouldn’t be the part he’s angriest about. The death, the chaos, the destruction, and who knows how long it will even take Kirkwall to recover, and all Hawke can remember is Anders’ words.

“Just talk to the Grand Cleric.”

And really, what had he even been expecting? He’d known from the moment Anders asked him to go into that Chantry that Anders was hiding something. Anders had talked about death and sacrifice, refused to tell him his plan, and Hawke had known something was wrong… but he’d done it anyway. Because Anders had begged. Because he was afraid Anders might try whatever he was planning with or without his help, and it would be worse.

Because no matter how he had worried, he had still trusted Anders.

He’ll add it to his list of failures.

“I’m sorry,” Anders says. “I wanted to tell you-”

“Stop. Just… stop.” Hawke shakes his head. “I don’t care what you wanted, because you didn’t. You knew I wouldn’t approve, you knew I’d find a way to talk you out of it, and instead of thinking that, oh, I don’t know, maybe that meant you should rethink the whole thing, you just manipulated me into it. You put my hands all over it and then told me not to blame myself somehow. And you know it was wrong! You know it was wrong, you hate yourself for it, and all I want is to forgive you, but you’re still sitting here defending it and I-” He breaks off. Runs his fingers through his hair, agitated. "I could have found another way. We could have found another way. If you'd just told me-"

"And what would it have changed?" Anders challenges. "You were already trying. You were already doing everything you could. What good would it have done you, to know what I had planned?"

“I could have talked you out of it!”

“And what would you have suggested instead?”

Hawke has no answer for that.

“You’re not saying anything I haven’t told myself already,” Anders continues. “There was no more time. You heard what Orsino said. Thrask’s conspiracy was all she needed to justify the Right. Meredith would have killed us all. She would have taken her time. Planned it. And slaughtered everyone, down to the last child. Something had to force her hand, if there was to be any chance. People had to see.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Do you?” Finally, Anders meets his eyes. “Do you really?”

It’s Hawke’s turn to drop his gaze. “... no. I want… I have to believe there was a better way.”

“Good. Hold on to that. You shouldn’t burden yourself with this.”

“I haven’t already?”

“No. Not entirely.”

Hawke just shrugs, not looking at him. “I suppose what’s done is done.”

“I suppose it is.” Anders is silent for a long moment. “What do you want from me, love?" he says at last, voice low. “You spared my life. You came with me. But you haven't forgiven me. So tell me, what would you have of me now? Penance? Do you want me to find some way to pay for the lives I've taken?"

"I want you to have paid!" The words come out louder he’d meant, frustration breaking forth at long last. "I want this to be done with! I want to turn to you and say 'well, glad that's over, let's go do something fun.' I want-" he breaks off with a wild, bitter laugh. "I want things to be okay again."

"That may never happen."

"I know." Hawke sighs, and he can't keep the exhaustion from his voice as he continues, "I love you, Anders. We'll find a way to fix this. We'll find a way to get past this. I promise. But you broke my damned heart. Give me time to heal."

"I'm sorry," Anders tells him.

"I know," Hawke says, and nothing more.

* * *

He woke up with his chest on fire.

The flare-ups were rarely this bad anymore, the old wound settling into a sort of seething dormancy in the years since the Qunari invasion. But the scar had been bothering him on and off for the past several weeks, and things, it seemed, had finally come to a head.

Hawke rolled onto his side, curling his knees towards his chest and letting out a quiet moan of pain. Of course. Exactly what they needed now, another travel delay. Maybe if Anders was up to it, he could get a compress, manage at least some distance before the whole day was a waste.

“Hawke,” Anders whispered, shaking him, and he winced at the sudden movement. “Hawke, get up.”

“I can’t,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s my chest again, just give me-”

“Hawke,” Anders interrupted, and Hawke could hear the urgency in his voice now. “ _Templars_.”


	6. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for moderately detailed descriptions of impalement, or, as I like to call it, "that one special attack the Arishok has can eat my entire ass.”

For as long as he lives, Hawke will never forget this moment.

He'll downplay it later on, dancing around the topic during the many times he will be asked to recount it. Varric, of course, will spare no detail. "It's great drama," he'll inform his old friend. "Even if it hadn't happened, I'd have made it up."

"Glad to be of service," Hawke will tell him, with a toast and a flash of teeth, and neither of them will linger on the subject.

The best tales rarely make the best of memories.

He’s confused, at first. The world shifts all at once, tilting and spinning until he is staring downwards, blinking at the sudden distance of floor. Then he catches up to the pain, and chokes, scrabbling and gasping uselessly for something, anything else to take his weight, anything but the hilt of a blade. Blood stains his lips, dribbling down his chin, and for a moment, he has enough time to think on his failure: of his friends, watching in horror; of Isabela, to be carted off to Par Vollen, she’d come back for him and he’d let her down; of Bethany, soon to be the last of the Hawkes, and maybe the Arishok will at least let her claim his body; and of Anders, shit, Anders.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he’d promised.

He’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

The Arishok tilts his hand, and Hawke feels a peculiar pulling sensation as he slides off the blade, crumpling to the ground. He can’t even really process the hurt anymore, his senses shattered and disconnected, pain, heat, wet, and Maker, that’s a lot of blood. He almost laughs as he hears the thought, warm, viscous red bubbling from his mouth.

There are voices around him, both strange and familiar, shouting.

  “Hawke!”  
 “No! Don’t be dead! Please!”  
“Is he-?”  
  “Get up! Get up, damn it, you’re not dying for me!”

The Arishok looms above him, blade in hand for the final blow, and he can feel the hard pressure of something in his hands as he watches, strangely dispassionate, as the Qunari steps closer. Another bolt of pain lances from his chest, and unthinking, he curls in on himself, hands pressing for his wound. Feels something cold and smooth greet him. 

It takes him a precious second to make sense of it. One of his miasmic flasks. Hawke turns his head, watching as the Arishok reaches him, raises his arms for the final blow.

He doesn’t know where he finds the strength. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving, at first. But one moment the bottle is in his hand, and the next it’s bursting across the Qunari’s face, filling the arena with the flash of light and a cloud of thick, cloying smoke.

Hawke rolls, and it feels like he leaves half of himself behind. The world reels, spinning, and he pushes himself onto his stomach, scrabbling for his daggers as the Arishok stumbles through the smoke. His head pounds with every faltering beat of his heart, not quite drowning out the sickening squelch of his own blood beneath him as his hands wrap around the hilts of his blades.

He stands, and his feet stay under him.

Time starts again, all at once, accelerating faster and faster as if to make up for its previous sloth. Hawke can feel the seconds ticking away, knows how little time he has, and he throws everything he has into the attack, slashing wildly with his blades. If he falls, it’s over. If he hesitates, it’s over. One way or another… it ends now.

Through the smoke, their eyes lock. The Qunari’s eyes narrow, assessing, weapons raised. He must be coming to the same conclusion, by now. Hawke’s barely on his feet - he has enough for perhaps one last attack. If the Arishok waits for Hawke to strike, he may not have time to maneuver, but Hawke is slowing visibly, enough that he has a chance to intercept him. If he attacks first, he could end it - but in doing so, he’ll be leaving an opening Hawke could seize on.

Hawke doesn’t know what decides for him. He will never, he knows, completely understand the logic of the Qunari, the strange, complicated prescriptions of the Qun. But the Arishok’s shoulders shift as he brings the weapons to bear, and Hawke moves in with everything he has left.

It’s enough.

* * *

As the fugitive pair scrambled to pack up their campsite, the heavy thud of armored boots bearing down upon them, two things became immediately apparent: first, that there was no time to run, and second, that they were in no condition to fight.

This close to Kirkwall, there was little point in hoping not to be recognized, and beyond that, with everything they’d seen of the rebelling templars, they’d likely be slaughtered even if they weren’t identified.

That left only one real option.

“Hide,” Hawke whispered urgently, bag over his shoulder, kicking dirt over the remnants of their fire with as much speed as he could force. “Hide everything, now.”

It was easier said than done. Alone, it would have been a trivial enough task - despite the hindrance of his old wound, Hawke was fast, and if there was one thing he knew, it was how to disappear. But Anders’ presence complicated things. In most circumstances, the mage was nearly as light on his feet as he was, but these… were not most circumstances.

The light crackled across his skin, unnatural blue seams spreading from his face, from the eyes he’d pressed both hands to, muttering to himself.

“Not here. Not here, not here not here-”

This was bad. Anders had a hard enough time keeping control around templars in most circumstances, let alone when he was dealing with a low like this. “Anders,” he whispered, then repeated more sharply, “Anders!”

The mage turned to look with blue eyes, and Hawke’s stomach dropped. “Not here,” Hawke said quietly. “Please… I can’t fight them all like this. You know I can’t.”

Anders - Justice - stared at him, expression eerily blank. Hawke stared back. Behind them, he could hear twigs snapping, leaves rustling. They didn’t have long. Hawke started to reach for his daggers, determined to at least do what he could, and the movement took forever. Too slow. He was too slow, it wouldn’t be enough.

Then a pair of hands seized his shoulders, pulling him towards the nearby underbrush, and Hawke let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

He wasted no time in covering their tracks, nudging leaves and branches back into place, pulling them flat on the ground. Anders was still frustratingly blank, eyes shining like beacons in the dark, but he didn’t resist as Hawke pulled his hood down to cover them, wrapping all traces of the Fade in the thick cloth.

He’d barely dropped into position when the templars broke the edge of the clearing, fanning out. From their hiding place, Hawke squeezed Anders’ shoulder, warning, but the mage seemed not to need it, remaining blessedly silent. 

The templars moved through slowly, picking through the clearing. It was immediately apparent that they, amazingly enough, were not after the fugitives, not even seeming to care about the remnants of their campfire left uncovered, but they were clearly looking for _something_. What it was, he couldn’t imagine, nor did he care. All that mattered right now was not being seen. Hawke didn’t move. Hawke didn’t dare breathe. And then one of the templars turned, staring past them, and he couldn’t anyway.

Through the eyeslits of the figure’s helmet, something _glinted_. He felt Anders tense beside him, and knew that he had seen it, too.

Red lyrium.

The templars moved on. Hawke and Anders did not move immediately, waiting until well after the footsteps had faded, until they were sure they were clear, to emerge from their hiding place.

“Did you see that?” Anders asked as soon as they were free again. He’d regained himself enough for all visible traces of Justice to fade, body once again his own - as much as it ever was, at any rate. “I could- hear it this time. Like the ring I used to have, but darker.” He shook his head as though trying to clear it.

“I saw it too,” Hawke said. “Varric talked about something happening with the templars in Kirkwall. This must be what he meant. If he’s caught up in all this- well, it’s not good.”

“Where could they be getting it?” Anders asked. “They can't know how to find the Thaig, and they can’t have gotten enough to go around from just the idol.”

“I hesitate to point this out, but wasn’t Meredith sort of, well, turned into the stuff?”

Anders blanched. “That’s… disgusting. But… I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the depths templars will sink to.”

Hawke just shook his head. “We need to get into Kirkwall. Who knows how long Varric’s been dealing with this?”

“We’re nearly there. Are we close enough for you to have come up with a plan yet?” Anders asked.

“We should regroup first," Hawke said. "If the templars are out in any force, we can't stay here. We need a place no one will think to look. Somewhere we can hide out, but that even bandits wouldn’t think to touch.”

“So, the Bone Pit?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Hawke laughed. “Maker, it’s about time I got something back from that place.”

“Just as long as another dragon hasn’t moved in.”

* * *

“... well, I suppose they’re not dragons?” Anders offered, voice surprisingly light as he brought his staff to bear.

“Nnnh,” was all Hawke managed in response.

Maker, he hated spiders.

Despite Hawke’s grumbling, the fighting wasn’t overly nasty. Though Anders had managed to ease his chest enough to travel before they started towards the abandoned mine, Hawke still took it as carefully as he dared, largely guarding Anders from stray attacks while the mage fireballed the area. Whatever else, it gave him time to think.

Obviously, the direct approach was out. The two most wanted fugitives in Kirkwall did not just walk in the front gates. Nor was disguise an option. No, this was a task best suited for subtlety. This was a task for stealth, subterfuge, slipping through a back entrance and moving from there.

This was a task for one person.

They had flushed out all the nests they could at this point. Hawke wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not. The pair settled into a decent-sized alcove near enough the entrance for some light to shine through, laying out their bedrolls as Hawke worked up the nerve to broach the subject.

Anders beat him to it. “You may as well come out with it,” he said. “It’s written all over your face.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“You’re probably better at it than I am, if it’s any consolation.” Anders sighed, shoulders slumping. “There’s no sense trying to talk you out of this, is there?”

“It has to be one of us,” Hawke said. “If we both go, it only increases our chances of getting caught.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Aren’t I never?” He rested his hand atop Anders’. “But all right. I promise.”


	7. Reunions

They spent the next day in preparation for the night ahead. At Anders’ insistence, Hawke spent most of the day resting, and at Hawke’s insistence, so did Anders. Hawke passed the time chattering aimlessly, curled up in his lover’s arms and carefully ignoring the bits of drakestone that still glinted amongst the rocks.

Nightfall took an eternity, and Hawke wished it had taken longer yet. He hated leaving Anders alone, especially so close to Kirkwall like this. But there was little choice.

It was for the best, he reminded himself. Taking him was so much riskier than leaving him behind. And it was only for a little while.

Anders handed him his bag as he prepared to leave. The mage had insisted on packing it himself, filling it with all the poultices and flasks he could manage. Hawke didn’t know why he found that so funny, but he went with it. He’d rather be laughing than worried.

“I’ll send Varric your love,” he said with a broad grin and as light a tone as he could manage. “Should I pick anything up while I’m out?”

“Oh, well, we’re out of… just about everything, really,” Anders replied. There was some strain in his voice, but Hawke took the levity as a good sign, and he leaned in, foreheads touching.

“Anders…” he said more quietly.

“Hawke, don’t-”

“No, no. This is important. If I’m not back by this time tomorrow, if you have any reason to believe I’ve been caught, then please… I know it’ll be hard, but I’m begging you…” He took a breath. “ _Come rescue me_.”

Anders let out a quiet laugh. “You are _such_ an ass.”

“I know,” Hawke replied, kissed him, and left.

* * *

“What do you mean, you’re not coming with us?!”

The Warden-Commander winces, not looking at him. “Anders-” she begins, but the blonde mage cuts her off.

“You said you’d be coming!” There’s equal parts anger and fear in his voice, and he doesn’t even try to hide it, words tripping over each other as he speaks. “You said I wouldn’t be alone with Rolan, you said you wouldn’t let that happen-”

“You won’t be alone,” the elven woman tries to protest. “There’ll be others, and Justice will be-”

But Anders isn’t listening.

Every assignment. Every damned assignment since the templars had stopped trying to have him returned, since the supposed ex-templar had showed up for recruitment, he’d been paired with Rolan. He’s supposed to believe it’s a coincidence? That the Grand Cleric had just let yet more of the Orders’ jealously guarded secrets fall into Warden hands?

Foolish. Stupid, foolish, what had he been thinking, imagining it was over? That he was free now? They’d hunted him down every other time, they still thought he killed those templars, and he’d imagined that it was finally over because of seven words? No, the deal they’d made is obvious. They’ll never leave him alone. They want him dragged back off to the Circle, or killed, and they’ll watch him until they can.

Anders had at least hoped that at least Warden-Commander Tabris knew nothing of it, that loyalty had won over keeping the peace for the woman known for her penchant for compromise and questionable alliances. She’d seemed concerned, hadn’t she, about Rolan? She’d promised him nothing would happen, that she’d be there to make sure nothing happened?

But now she isn’t coming, and Anders’ stomach sinks like a stone. 

“I was reassigned,” she says, bringing Anders back to the present. “I’d go with you if I had a choice.”

“You’re the Warden-Commander! Why are you letting them overrule you like this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She sighs now, folding her arms. “I’m a crisis commander, Anders. When I took over Amaranthine, I was the only active Warden left in Ferelden, and the Hero of Ferelden to boot. Now that the Order’s trickled back in, I’m a rookie with sporadic training who made a dangerous deal with a sentient darkspawn and is too close to the King. They won’t demote me directly, that’d cause too much of a stir, but they want me to know my place. So I’m being ‘requested’ on long missions away from the Keep, while one of the more experienced Wardens ‘keeps an eye on things’ while I’m gone.” She shakes her head. “You want to know if Rolan’s been sent to watch you? He probably has. I’ve ruffled too many templar feathers over you, and it makes sense they’re trying to smooth things over. But you are a Warden. They’re not going to do anything more, even without me there.”

“So that’s it? After everything we’ve done, it’s back to templars watching me all the time?” Anders runs a hand through his hair, pulling strands loose from the half-ponytail he’s taken to wearing. “Maker. What was even the point? There was never really an escape, was there?”

“Don’t you give up on me, Anderfels,” she says firmly. “Just wait this out. I’ll come up with something when I get back, I promise.”

Anders believes her, then. But time drags on, and the longer she’s away, the more Anders comes to realize how much she’s been protecting him.

The first mission alone with Rolan is long and miserable, and Anders doesn’t leave his bed for two days once they get back. They take Ser Pounce-a-lot after the second one - the animal’s making him too soft, they tell him. The Deep Roads are no place for a cat, he almost got Rolan killed because he was too busy minding the beast. 

(Anders wishes he had.)

The third one takes weeks, and when Anders tramps back, exhausted and hating himself, she’s still not back from her mission. With his other friends scattered to the winds, Anders is so desperate for company he even finds himself seeking out Justice to chat, and he’s surprised by how sympathetic an ear he finds.

The fourth one, he accepts a spirit’s offer, and the mission ends in blood and fire.

There is no fifth.

It’s three months later when Warden-Commander Tabris finally returns, and arrives to find nothing in the place of two of her dearest friends. Justice regrets that they couldn’t say goodbye. Anders just regrets.

* * *

They’d torn down his statue.

Hawke didn’t mind, really. The damned thing hadn’t even looked anything like him, fully furnished with a longsword he’d never used and a helmet obviously meant to cover for the fact that he’d refused to pose for the sculptor. He was surprised by the graffiti, though - the vitriol was nothing unexpected, but there was much more in the way of support than he’d have anticipated. The de facto templar rule was, evidently, even worse-received now than it had been three years ago.

The Docks were eerily quiet. He was hardly complaining about the lack of potential assailants, but the silence was still unnerving, especially combined with the glaring lack of guards. He wondered at that, before the first armored patrol forced him back into the shadows, the symbols of flame-wreathed swords emblazoned proudly on their chests.

The Hanged Man wasn’t too far from here, but it was enough distance to put him on edge. And there was, of course, still the question of how to get _into_ the establishment once he made it there. If there was one place in Kirkwall that was certain to know him, even cloaked…

He was sure he’d figure something out. He was good at improvising.

And, more to the point, there was no guarantee he’d make it that far, a realization sharply impressed on him when he barely dived out of the way of a second patrol as it rounded the corner. 

This was absurd. Why were there so many templars, here of all places? He watched them from the shadows, noticing the way they fanned out across the streets. They were clearly looking for something. Him? They couldn’t have any idea he’d come back, could they? Even if they’d intercepted Varric’s letter somehow, the dwarf had made it quite clear that he was to stay away, and he wasn’t that predictably contrary… was he?

Something here wasn’t adding up. Hairs on end, Hawke continued on his way. Hopefully, Varric would have answers. (Hopefully, Varric would be _okay_.)

He was passing behind the alley of an all-too-familiar warehouse when it happened. He’d been in there a hundred times, it felt like, dealing with some petty public menace or the other who’d holed up inside, and even after three years’ time, he still knew all the best places to hide.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one.

There was real strength in the hand that that seized the neck of his armor, the arm that yanked him through the doorway and slammed him against the wall. Hawke’s breath caught in his throat, the rogue already moving to throw off the hold before he processed the familiar shock of red hair.

“Where is he, Hawke?” she asked, voice low but serious.

“Aveline!” he whispered back, maybe a little too loudly, given the shake she gave him. “Lovely to see you!” he continued, quieter but undaunted. “You're looking well.” 

“Where is he, Hawke?” she repeated, and he did not have to ask who she meant.

“Oh, here and there, out there in the great beyond, somewhere. Which is to say: not here. Maker, do you think I'm an idiot?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right, but do you think I'm _that_ much of an idiot?” 

“Yes.” 

“... fair enough. But he’s still not here.”

Aveline gave him a long look, then released him, shaking her head. “Thank the Maker for small mercies, then.”

“Does this mean you’re _not_ looking to arrest him?” Hawke asked, slightly surprised.

“I’d love to,” she said seriously. “But right now, I’m more worried about him getting _you_ caught.”

“So it _is_ us the templars are looking for.”

“Not… exactly. They’re not the ones looking for you, and you’re not the ones they’re looking for.” She sighed. “This isn’t a good place to talk. Come on.”

Hawke barely held his tongue as she led him through the dark streets, finally coming to a stop in an disused-looking building that he remembered had once been a thriving guardhouse. “No one’s ever here at night,” Aveline explained. “The templars have been shutting us out. They don’t want anyone else finding their Warden first.”

“Their Warden?” Hawke asked reflexively, before cutting himself off. “Actually, no, that’s not my first question. Is Varric all right?”

“Fine, last I knew. He’s also not here.”

“What?”

“A woman took him to some place called Haven,” Aveline explained. “She said something about taking him to talk to Divine Justinia. I don’t know the details.”

“The - Divine?” Hawke asked, eyes wide.

“That’s what that woman said. She called herself Seeker Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine. She and her men were interrogating anyone who knew you.” She took her seat with a sigh. “I told them as little as I could. And they weren’t about to drag the Guard-Captain away from Kirkwall, that’d mean leaving it to the templars, and they’re as much rebels as the mages are now. But Varric didn’t have that protection, and with that damn book of his…”

Hawke waved his hands, gesturing for her to slow down. “Wait, wait, wait. So you’re saying that right now, Varric is off telling more of his tall tales about me… to _the Divine_?”

“Yes.”

“As in, the leader of the entire Chantry?”

“Yes.”

“Well… I guess leaving divided her forces after all,” Hawke said, which got a snort from Aveline.

“If we’re in danger of an Exalted March, it won’t be to put down the mages,” Aveline told him. “Anyone who didn’t go with you when you left was out not long after. Not that the templars care about that.”

“I saw that much,” Hawke said. “There was one yesterday who had red lyrium?”

“More than one of them. Ever since they broke off from the Chantry and Captain Cullen left, they’ve been getting more and more paranoid, looking for any power they can. No matter the cost.” She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling as she recalled, “Varric and I were investigating it all before he left. You remember that Grey Warden Nathaniel, who was trying to retrace your expedition route? Some Wardens were apparently researching red lyrium - Maker only knows why, but one of them, Stroud, had it out with the templars somehow. They’ve been looking for him ever since.”

Hawke sat in silence for a while, digesting the information and rocking back and forth on the hind legs of his chair. Finally, he spoke, “Well. Looks like I’ve really stepped in it this time, haven’t I?”

“Oh no no no no,” Aveline said. “‘You’ haven’t stepped in anything. ‘You’ are getting out of Kirkwall as soon as you can.”

“Aveline! So little faith in me!”

“I swore I’d keep you safe, Hawke. I don’t go back on my word so easily.”

“... even after everything?”

“ _Especially_ after everything,” she said. “Maker knows, you need it.”

“Trouble _does_ seem to have a knack for me,” Hawke said with a laugh. “... I could at least look for Stroud, you know. While we’re here anyway.”

“There’s not much point. The templars have been looking for weeks,” Aveline replied. “He’s probably _long_ gone by now.”

* * *

Anders thought it was more spiders, at first. He’d been gathering the webs, after all, when it happened.

The part of him that was Justice had been… restless, lately. Anders couldn’t really say what had brought it on, if anything had, but combined with his recent spike in Warden dreams, he was feeling utterly low. Drained. Hating himself. And with Hawke out, he didn’t have much to keep his mood up.

There was nothing for him to do. That was the worst of it. There were no more Circles to free - he and Hawke had helped with that, and with the College’s vote, the mages were officially in rebellion. Anders hoped that would be enough. It was more than he’d even dared dream of, a day he never expected to live to see. He should have been overjoyed. But instead, he just felt restless. Unfocused. There was too much left to do yet, too many injustices to be addressed, and he couldn’t even begin to start on any of them. 

The bulk of the mage rebellion was gathering in Redcliffe, he’d heard. They’d considered going to join them, help them defend against the inevitable templar attack, but Anders knew better. They were better off without him. The mages could wash their hands of him, decry the actions of the lone madman who’d brought the templars on them. Punished for something they hadn’t even done, just like Kirkwall, just like every mage ever brought to the Circle before them, and maybe this time the world would see.

Maybe it wouldn’t all be for nothing.

Maker, he hadn’t expected the refugees. He’d known there would be war, certainly. The time for compromise had long passed. The templars would never have accepted a rebellion peacefully. He’d realized there might be some crossfire, he supposed, in the times he’d thought of that stage, but that it might come to this? That templars would turn on farmers, merchants, non-mages?

Hawke had insisted that that much, at least, was not his fault. That there was more going on than him, that the templars had been the ones to bring the fighting beyond the mages. This only proved how deep the corruption of the templars had spread, he’d told him. It was only right to stand up to them. On his better days, Anders could believe it.

(There had been few better days of late.)

But that didn’t change the fact that he should be out there, helping however he could. Templars be damned. It was only right. There was blood enough on his hands, no matter the necessity, and if there was any way but death to atone for it, it would be this. 

But there was still Hawke to think of. Hawke, who loved him despite everything, who’d stayed by his side long past he had any right to ask, who’d lost enough already. Who Anders had _taken_ enough from already. Anders couldn't throw him into further danger like that, and he hadn’t the heart to leave him.

So he was gathering spiderwebs. They were good for patching wounds, and it made him feel better to have a full medical kit. Not that anything wasn’t better than sitting around feeling useless and pathetic while he waited for Hawke. 

And that was how he found him. Barely conscious, eyes lidded, breathing shallow, still-armored fingers skittering and scratching across the stone in the throes of fever.

Anders stared, disbelieving. He remembered this man. It had been a while, but if nothing else, the armor was a dead giveaway. 

“Warden Stroud?”

* * *

"So how have things been, then?" Hawke asked after some time. They hadn't dared leave their makeshift hideout yet, waiting for the templars to move on, and the inactivity was starting to wear on him.

“Varric didn’t tell you?”

“We’ve been sending each other coded letters, that’s hardly the best channel of communication. Plus, it’s been months.”

“All right, let’s see.” Aveline folded her arms. “Gamlen’s still off with your cousin in Tantervale. Orana, too, with as many of your things as I could convince her to carry.”

"Good, at least someone’s getting some use from them. Is there any word?"

"No, nothing. I've run into a few troublemakers claiming to be Charade's ‘friends’, but that's all."

"What about Bethany? Did Varric pass on my letter before they took him?"

"What letter?"

“... well, I suppose she’s just a bit worried right now, then,” Hawke said with a sigh.

“I can take care of Bethany,” Aveline promised. “She’s almost sent everyone she could off to join some group in Ferelden by now. It’s about time she got out of the Free Marches.”

“Just don’t stick your neck out on my account,” Hawke said. “This is more than a few bandits, and if you get hurt and I’m not there to stab someone I’ll feel terrible, I’m sure.”

“This is on Bethany’s account, not yours,” she replied. When Hawke had no response to that, she continued, “I know you too well. You're quick enough to get us into messes, and you're even quicker to get us out of the real ugly ones. But it’s not the same thing when family’s on the line, is it?”

“That was almost poetic, Aveline. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“It’s not mine, it’s Varric’s,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.”

Hawke said nothing.

“... from the opening of ‘The Tale of the Champion’?”

Silence.

“You mean you still haven’t read it?” Aveline asked. “Hawke. He’s sent you at least five copies by now. Have you just been throwing them away?”

“... kindling, actually,” he admitted at last.

“What? Why?”

"’ _Why?_ ’” Hawke let his chair fall back to all fours, and he couldn’t keep the exasperation from his voice. “Maker, _why_ does everyone think I want to read about myself? Do they think I need to be reminded of my own mistakes? Because I promise you, I do _not_ need help with that."

“It’s not like that,” Aveline insisted. “There were so many rumors after... what happened with Meredith. Varric is your friend; he wanted to set the record straight.”

“Good for him! But I already know the record pretty well, so let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

“Hawke…” Aveline began, but too late to cut him off. Hawke stood, pacing.

“Actually, no, you’re right, hand it over! Let's see, what part should I read first? Shall I start with my mother dying in my arms? Or perhaps skip ahead to the part where the love of my life lies to me, blows up a Chantry and kicks off a war? I hear that's a real _blast_.”

“Hawke.”

“No, no, clearly, I should start at the beginning, with my brother being crushed to death by an ogre! Read it the way it's meant to be read and all!"

“ _Hawke_.”

He stopped, looking back at her. Quietly, he said, "I know how I make it seem, Aveline, but believe me when I tell you that my life's a bit more fun from the outside."

"I just... thought it might give you some closure,” she said.

“What closure? I’m still in the middle of this mess, aren’t I?”

“Forget I said anything.”

“Already done,” Hawke said, reverting back to a lighter tone slightly too quickly. After a long moment, he ventured, “Aveline?”

“Yes?”

“How _did_ you know I was here, anyway?”

“Easy,” she said. “Varric said he told you to stay away.”

“... you really _do_ know me too well.”

* * *

Stroud was in bad shape. This close to the man, Anders could see the remnants of a makeshift camp now, as well as the large corpse of a poison spiders - the source, apparently, of the large, weeping bite on his arm. That explained the nonresponsiveness, but not the other injuries scattered about the Warden, wounds that matched neither spider nor darkspawn. They had the clean edges of a blade - bandits, then, or more likely templars, to have been able to do this to a Grey Warden. 

It took his last lyrium potion. He wasn’t sure where he’d find another, but Anders just didn’t have enough without it. As it was, he could only manage to get Stroud stable, too drained to close his wounds after the effort of purging the poison from his blood. He made up what he could with poultices, hoping infection wouldn’t set in during the night.

Stroud didn’t wake. He wasn’t overly surprised - the man would likely be out for hours still. Which, really, was probably for the best. This wasn’t some passing refugee - Stroud knew him for the thieving, deserting murderer he was, and had no cause for any lingering affection towards him. 

What was he even doing here? The Bone Pit was an appealing hideout for anyone who knew of it, he supposed, but why would he need to hide in the first place? None of this made any sense, and, with Stroud’s breathing even and Anders’ mind beginning to… wander… again, he soon found himself investigating the Warden’s camp more thoroughly.

There wasn’t much there. Aside from the supplies, all Anders could really find was some scattered papers - missives, letters, and… maps? Now that was familiar - it was, after all, from Stroud that Anders had stolen those fateful Deep Roads maps not long after he first came to Kirkwall. Maps of this very same area, in fact. 

Before Anders could process that further, he was interrupted by the sharp pressure of a blade at his back. “Stop… right… there.” Stroud’s voice came out in gasps, and Anders could tell without looking that the man was barely on his feet. Honestly, Anders was amazed he was awake at all - Warden stubbornness, he supposed.

Anders raised his hands, wondering if he had enough in him left for a mind blast if things came down to it. He’d rather Hawke not come back to find him dead because of a whim of curiosity. “I meant no harm,” he said, not looking back.

“Wait… I know that voice,” Stroud said slowly. “ _Anders_ ,” he growled.

He had enough for that mind blast after all. As Stroud staggered, Anders turned, staff in his hands as he stepped back. Holding his head, Stroud stumbled, blade falling from his hand as he leaned heavily against the nearby cave wall. 

“You…” Stroud began, but broke off, legs giving out under his own weight. Anders approached hesitantly, staff still at the ready as Stroud’s shoulders sagged in surrender. “What does… any of this… have to do with you?” he gasped at last. “Are you here to take what I wouldn’t give the templars?”

“We didn’t even know you were here,” Anders said slowly. “We only came back because we heard… a friend was in trouble.”

“You and… the Champion?” Stroud tilted his head back to look at him. “Is he here?”

“He’ll be back soon,” Anders replied.

Stroud just nodded absently, clearly thinking. His voice was tired when he continued, “You really don’t know about any of it?”

“No, we don’t.” Anders paused. “I saw those maps. Does this have anything to do with that expedition to the Deep Roads Nathaniel made a few years ago?”

Stroud gave him a flat glare. “You’re nine years and a Chantry late to be involving yourself in Warden business.”

“All right, keep your secrets,” Anders said. “But if it’s anything to do with that red lyrium those templars had, then-”

“What’s all this about red lyrium?” came a voice from the cave entrance. As one, they looked over, and a familiar silhouette came into view. “Oh, would you look at that?” Hawke continued as his eyes fell on Stroud. “Aveline owes me 10 silvers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend Laurel for their help, both with this fic in general and with Aveline’s and Hawke’s conversation specifically.


	8. Little Talks

“What’s this knife doing here?”

Anders is glad, not for the first time, that Velanna is occupied on another mission right now. The woman has all the subtlety of a charging bronto and a tremendously low tolerance for “shemlen bullshit.” With incidents like this, he can’t exactly blame her, but there’s a definite “how” when it comes to mouthing off to large men with swords, an art Anders learned years ago and Velanna probably never will.

Unlike another elf who could be mentioned.

“I prefer ‘Warden-Commander Tabris’.” Her voice is light, casual, but Anders can see the way her eyes flash when she speaks. Saying no more than what needs to be said, and trusting that it will be enough.

Which it of course will. She uses the lesser of her titles - Warden-Commander, not Hero of Ferelden: everyone knows enough to connect the two, and so the understatement serves her well. She could have snapped, postured, but that’d put the guard on the defensive. (Anger, he’s learned, discredits easily.)

The guard blanches immediately. “My- my apologies, Messerre, I didn’t mean-”

“I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge here,” she interrupts, not acknowledging the apology.

“Of course. Right this way.” The guard bows - bows \- and in the moment his eyes are off her, Anders sees her expression flicker. Not smug, like Anders would have been, just… tired.

The Warden-Commander is no mage, but sometimes when she speaks, he hears Circle life in her voice. Clever, careful, and quiet - and better at it than Anders ever was. Everyone finds a way to survive. Anders had learned to run. She had learned to talk, he’d guess the same way that most mages do, from a life with nothing but wit and words between her and the whims of those in power. All the bards in Orlais couldn't have bought better training than that.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Stroud gasped, staring at the arrival with wide eyes.

Hawke just shrugged, rolling his shoulders with a deliberate lightness that couldn’t quite hide the pained wince. “Oh, you know. Checking up on a friend, running from templars, sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong - the usual.” He grinned, a little too wide, and Anders rolled his eyes. Hawke enjoyed these theatrics entirely too much, but Anders would be lying if he said he wasn’t usually amused, or that he didn’t appreciate his lover’s attempt to defuse the situation in his own… unique way.

“Aveline sends her love, by the way,” Hawke continued, addressing Anders directly. “Also, food, news, and a friendly reminder to get out of Kirkwall before we get ourselves killed in a gruesome fashion.”

“News?” Anders asked.

“Oh yes, I’ve got all the juicy gossip. What do you want first: the good news, the bad news, or the worse news?”

“... what’s the bad news?” Anders asked warily.

“We were right - the templars here are all taking red lyrium.”

“Maker.” Anders shook his head. “If that’s the bad news, what’s the worse news?”

“Varric’s gone.”

“By ‘gone’, you mean-?”

“Off to some place called Haven. Apparently, the Divine has questions.”

“About us?”

“Yes.”

“... and the good news?”

“They _finally_ took down that awful statue.”

Anders groaned, falling to sit against the nearest wall. Hawke dropped next to him, elbow casually brushing his arm. Anders rested his head against the other man’s shoulder, and for a moment, they just sat there, until a quiet cough from Stroud brought them back to the present.

“Yes, of course, we’re being _terrible_ hosts, aren’t we?” Hawke shifted, eyes flickering over the wounded man. “It’s good to see you, Ser Stroud. Apparently fugitive life agrees with us all.”

“‘Fugitive life’?” Anders asked.

“Ah, well, those templars we ran into yesterday? It turns out they were looking for an entirely different runaway Grey Warden.” He glanced at Stroud. “Something to do with red lyrium, I’m told?”

“This is Warden business,” Stroud said sharply.

“I could leave you two alone, but you know, he’d just tell me everything afterwards anyway,” Hawke said. When Stroud didn’t dignify that with a response, the rogue continued, “But what I don’t understand is, how is lyrium ‘Warden business’, red or not? I know you spend a lot of time in the Deep Roads, but I can’t imagine the great Grey Wardens branching out into lyrium smuggling. Though, then again, from the stories I’ve heard of that Warden Tabris...”

“You will not slander the Hero of Ferelden.”

“I’m not slandering anyone! I’m just saying, I understand that whole ‘getting wrapped up in things that don’t have anything to do with you’ impulse a little too well.”

Hawke gave Stroud a pointed look. Stroud glared. Hawke raised an eyebrow. Anders tried very hard to blend in with the wall.

Eventually, Stroud just sighed. “... I suppose it may be time to involve outsiders, after all. Very well then.” He took a breath, preparing himself. “I am… concerned about corruption in the Wardens.”

“That’s the whole point of the Joining, I thought?”

“Are you going to make smart remarks all night, or do you intend to listen?” Stroud snapped.

“... do I have to choose?” Hawke asked.

“Hawke,” Anders interrupted, and his lover relented. The mage sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the renewed attention. This was always Hawke’s problem, really. He could carry himself far on wit and charm, but he never knew when to stop.

At least Stroud’s mind seemed to be made up. After a brief pause to ensure Hawke had truly finished running his mouth, he continued, “We’d been investigating that Thaig you and Ser Tethras found for some time. As you know, it seems to be the main source of red lyrium. We have been researching it - the belief is that it it is Blighted in some way.”

“Blighted? But the Blight only afflicts living things,” Anders said.

“What about that mirror of Merrill’s?” Hawke asked. “That was tainted too, wasn’t it?”

“I know nothing about any tainted mirror,” Stroud said. “But yes, that was the question. If it’s not itself Blighted, there seems to be some connection. We were investigating it when some of the others became obsessed, began to behave strangely. I’ve heard rumors of… a Warden who may know more in the woods near Tantervale. I was on my way there when I stopped in Kirkwall, and the templars approached me. They wished to find the thaig from your expedition to access the red lyrium within. When I refused, they attacked, and I was forced to hide here.”

“But they’ve already found a source of red lyrium, haven’t they?” Hawke asked. “The ones we encountered had been taking it, and Aveline says there are more.”

“I do not know,” Stroud replied. “Perhaps the source they have is limited, or perhaps they have secured it and wish to eliminate anyone who knows their secret. All I can say is that they have been hunting me for weeks now. I came here to hide a few days ago, but I was too injured to move on, until-” his eyes flickered over Anders briefly before returning to Hawke. “You found me.”

“Glad we could be of service,” Hawke said. “I don’t suppose we could be of more?”

“What, really?” Anders asked him quietly.

“What else are we going to do?” Hawke replied. “Besides, don’t tell me you don’t want to get to the bottom of this, too. Or at least stop the templars from getting more red lyrium.” Anders couldn’t argue with that one. Hawke turned to Stroud. “You need a hand on the road and safe harbor in Tantervale. I have a cousin there who probably doesn’t hate me, and as for the traveling, I promise you, we’re both well acquainted with killing templars by now.”

Stroud’s eyes flickered to Anders, expression skeptical.

“Whatever else, I’m as good as my word, Stroud,” Hawke continued. “You know me well enough to know that.”

The Warden sighed. “... I suppose I was hoping for this when I told you, even if I did not admit it.” He glanced down at himself. “I do not think myself well enough for travel.”

“Anders can help with that, can’t he?” Hawke asked, turning to his lover.

Anders just shook his head. “I’ve done all I can for tonight. Maybe tomorrow…”

“Then I guess we’re making camp again,” Hawke said.

* * *

Hawke is kissing him.

It’s one week since Kirkwall now, of running and hiding and silent recriminations. They’d split off from the mages yesterday, some grateful, some resentful, all agreed that it would be safer for them to go their separate ways. Isabela’s ship is waiting in Ostwick. It is, apparently, her crew’s standing instructions, should Isabela ever need to flee Kirkwall in a hurry and be unable to leave from the city docks. The others are traveling with her, for now, though Anders knows that won’t last long. Markham’s not too far from Ostwick, and their Circle will have been the first to have heard the news out of Kirkwall. There’s bound to be unrest there. Hawke and Anders intend to be on hand. Bethany will come too, of course. Merrill might be willing to lend her aid as well. But Isabela will be leaving with her ship, Fenris no doubt following, and Varric’s made no secret of his intent to return to Kirkwall as soon as Aveline sends word that it’s safe.

Everyone’s leaving, slowly but surely. Anders had expected no less.

Except when it came to Hawke. Hawke, who’d spared him when everything Anders thought was right told him he had to die. Hawke, who’d asked him to help defend the mages, who’d promised to stay with him even after everything. Hawke, who Anders knows still hasn’t forgiven him.

And now, for the first time since Kirkwall, Hawke is kissing him.

The other man makes a low noise, hand fisting on the front of Anders’ jacket, and the mage realizes he’s been sitting here, frozen, the entire time. Slowly, cautiously, afraid Hawke will pull away at any moment, Anders returns the kiss, tentative at first, then deep and desperate.

Eventually, they break apart, panting for air, Hawke’s face still inches from Anders’.

“I love you,” Hawke whispers, thumb dragging circles along Anders’ cheek. “You know that, don’t you? I love you.”

Anders swallows. Licks his lips. Opens his mouth to try to respond, but can find no words but “Thank you.” Because really, what else is there to say?

“I missed this,” Hawke murmurs. “I missed us.”

“So did I.” Anders leans in, their foreheads touching. “... are you still angry?”

“I don’t know how I feel. But...” He brushes hair from Anders’ eyes, and smiles, just a little. “But I won’t lose this. I won’t lose you. No matter what.”

“I love you,” Anders says.

They kiss again under the stars, long and slow and deep, and just for a little bit, Anders feels a weight lift from his chest.

* * *

“Anders, come out here for a moment.”

Reluctantly, Anders looked up from his work. Hawke had brought back some empty flasks, and, with little else to do until nightfall, he’d been making potions with the ingredients he’d been able to gather from around the mine.

The sun was just starting to go down when he walked into the open, and the air was cold, wind biting bitterly at the skin his cloak left exposed. Anders pulled the garment tighter.

“What is it, Hawke?” Anders asked, and he was actually surprised by how tired his voice sounded. “I should-” he stopped, confused, as he saw the scene.

Hawke was grinning, both parts nervous and sheepish, as he sat cross-legged on the ground. He’d spread their bedrolls out on the uneven ground, making a surface large enough to sit on, and on top of it, he’d spread out the most perishable foods Aveline had pressed on him, even - was that a bottle of _wine_?

“So…” Hawke began, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m not really the best at the whole ‘sappy, romantic’ thing, so bear with me.”

“Hawke…” Anders began, but his lover just shook his head.

“No, no. Speech time.” He stood, clearing his throat. “Look. Anders. It’s been… a miserable last few days. Coming back to Kirkwall like this hasn’t been easy on either of us. And I don’t know if it’s going to get better anytime soon. But I know you’ve been feeling low lately, and I thought, since we’ve nothing to do before tomorrow…” he gestured vaguely at the impromptu picnic. “I thought it’d be nice to do something special, for once.” He walked over to Anders, taking his hands. “I love you. I love you, and I want to - I’m _going_ to spend the rest of my life with you. Granted, I don’t know how long that will be, but...” He broke off. “Maker, I’m bad at this. Just… let’s have a damn picnic, all right?”

“... well, all right,” Anders said.

They arranged themselves on the blankets, looking over the food. Hawke hadn’t been able to get much, Anders supposed, but it was fresher than anything they’d had in weeks, and it was impressive enough that Aveline had managed to get them even this. There was bread, good bread, with soft cheese, a few apples, and a jar of some sort of preserves, a bottle sitting amongst them. Anders picked up that last one, examining it. Aveline had always had good taste in spirits, hadn’t she? Anders remembered there had always been a few bottles sitting around in the Estate, gifts from the Guard-Captain. He glanced around.

“... how were we planning on drinking the wine, exactly?” he asked.

“Ah, yes. Well, I don’t exactly have cups, so I was thinking we’d just kind of… Fenris it,” Hawke said.

Anders couldn’t help but laugh. “You didn’t really plan this out, did you?”

Hawke smiled sheepishly. “We’re lucky I even thought to grab the bottle.”

They ate, passing the drink between them, laughing at old stories and silly, tired jokes, and when the sun finally sunk entirely below the horizon, they found themselves curled up next to each other, blankets pulled up against the cold.

“We needed this, didn’t we?” Hawke mumbled into Anders’ neck, eyes half-closed with drowsiness and wine.

“We did,” Anders agreed, leaning into the embrace. “Thank you.”

Hawke smiled, letting his eyes slide closed entirely, and they fell asleep under the stars.

* * *

The book was tattered and stained, pages nearly ripping loose from the binding. Time had not been kind, the tome already well read when she had purchased it out of curiosity from a wandering merchant a few months ago. The Lavellans had never been as isolated from the human world as many of their sister clans, knowing full well the ramifications that even seemingly minor human conflicts could have for those passing through their territories, and the mage/templar war was anything but minor.

She had told herself it was that, and not any lingering curiosity toward the human world, that had led her to pick up _The Tale of the Champion_. That it had been pure boredom that had led her to her second reread, dizzy and recovering from the stunning blow that had taken most of the hearing in her right ear.

On her fourth reread now, she had given up all pretense. The book was _fascinating_. She had always loved to read, poring over and painstakingly translating the documents her clan had salvaged, begging books from the humans they sometimes traded with.

It wasn’t that she was dissatisfied with her life, exactly. She was proud of her people, her history, her culture. She was glad to serve as scout, helping to protect and provide for the clan, and to learn what crafts she was able.

She just wasn’t very good at it. She was slow and clumsy with her bow and even worse with knives, her only real talents being a minor proficiency in crafting, an unusually light step and the ability to go through a lengthy text in less time than it took to eat a meal. And with no guarantee that she would ever recover her full hearing or balance after her latest injury, she had no idea if she’d even be able to keep up with her hunting duties anymore.

So it was nice, for a little while, to dive into another world, another life. She wasn’t going to pretend otherwise anymore.

“Da’len?” The Keeper’s voice came from behind her, causing the scout to glance up from her reading, hastily snapping the book closed. The hunter straightened as Keeper Istimaethoriel sat carefully across from her. The elder’s face was grave, and it worried the younger elf. “How are your injuries?” the Keeper continued, and she could only shrug.

The Keeper seemed to accept that response - or perhaps she wasn’t really looking for one, because she continued without preamble, “There is to be a Conclave…”

“A… Conclave?” she asked, confused.

“Yes. The leader of the human Chantry has called for talks between the mages and templars. It could end this senseless war… or make it worse. We need to know what happens. But we can send no representatives.” Istimaethoriel did not quite meet her eyes. “So we must send a spy.” Suddenly, they locked gazes, and the intensity of the Keeper’s gaze made her shift uncomfortably. “We are stretched thin, Da’len. We can spare no active scouts. You are… a quiet child. I had thought perhaps to send you, but if you have not recovered…” she shook her head. “I suppose the First must serve.”

“What?” She felt a reeling that had nothing to do with her head, a jolt in her stomach like she’d been struck. “You can’t! He’s - he’s the First, he has to stay with the Clan. He’s too important to risk like that.”

“Da’len-”

“You can’t,” she interrupted, forgetting her place entirely. “You can’t send my brother off into the templars and their Chantry.”

“He is not your family alone,” the Keeper reminded quietly, and the younger elf hung her head in shame.

“He’s too important,” she said, the heat in her voice giving way to desperation. “Send me.”

“You are injured.”

“I can still walk!” she said. “Send me. The clan needs its First more than it needs a failed hunter.”

“Da’len-” the Keeper began.

“Mother, _please_ ,” the scout interrupted, and the Keeper Istimaethoriel sighed in surrender.

“... ma nuvenin, da’len,” she said. “But be careful. You are not so disposable as you think.”

“I will,” she promised. “All I have to do is hide. It’s the one thing I’m good at, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho, what’s this? That’s right, folks, it’s Inquisition start time at long last. 
> 
> Thanks to my friend [SchizoAuthoress](http://archiveofourown.org/users/schizoauthoress/works) for zir help working out some of the wording snags, and also just for dipping zir toes into the fandom in general. Further thanks to my friend Alex, who is not even in the fandom, for nonetheless trawling through the DA Wiki for me in order to complete a minor metaphor I was stuck on.


	9. Running Red

In a perfect world, Hawke’s gesture the previous night would have been all that was needed. Anders would have pulled out of his low cycle, comforted by Hawke’s love and invigorated by their new mission, and they would set out with light hearts and high spirits.

Obviously, this was not actually the case. Nor did Hawke particularly expect it to be. It hadn’t any of the possibly hundreds of times he’d done such a thing over the course of their relationship. But that wasn’t the point of it. It wasn’t about anything lasting - nothing was permanent. It was about stealing moments where they could, whenever they could, and moving on when they couldn’t. It wasn’t easy, but Hawke didn’t mind so much anymore. Life, he’d learned, had its ups and downs, and there was nothing for it but to live.

Still, Anders did seem somewhat better today, and Hawke was glad for that.

It was funny, in that not-actually-that-funny type of way, the ways that Anders bore his guilt. He’d cling stubbornly to the rightness of destroying the Chantry, down to the last detail, yet whenever it came up he spoke of nothing but his own disgust at the act, and himself for perpetrating it. He could rant for hours about the failures of the Circle, the twisting of Andraste’s words, and yet the smallest challenge would send him spiralling into despair and self-doubt. Hawke wondered, privately, how much of that was Justice’s influence, if all this was the inevitable interaction of mortal doubts with a spirit’s certainty. Or maybe that was just how Anders was. Hawke didn’t, couldn’t know, never having met the mage before his possession.

Either way, though, the man seemed determined to take the templars’ attacks on civilians personally. Which was absolutely _ridiculous_. If there was one thing Hawke was certain was right, it was challenging the templars - which was, of course, why it was exactly that which Anders had fixated on recently.

He was not responsible for what the templars had done, not to him, not to the mages, and not to the refugees in general. Any claim otherwise was like… holding the populace hostage, as far as he was concerned. As though the templars had threatened all the world if the mages did not submit to their abuses, and any effort to stop them was some great travesty, rather than laudable. Anders would agree to as much, Hawke knew. Yet his resolve seemed to crumble in the face of every refugee, and Hawke wished he could find the words to make it right. What a fine time for his cleverness to fail him.

Maker, what a pair they made.

Or trio now, he supposed. “ _Champion_ ,” Stroud gasped, pulling Hawke from his thoughts.

The Warden was doing somewhat better now. Anders had healed him enough to travel this morning, and they’d been making decent time so far, slowed more by the need for stealth than by any injury on Stroud’s part. Still, Anders had said it was best not to push him, and it was with that in mind that Hawke turned, already considering the best place to stop .

“I feel it too,” Anders said before Hawke could react further, staff raised. “That- what _is_ that?”

Wait, what?

“Red lyrium corrupts the body,” Stroud answered. “When it spreads far enough…”

“What are you talking about?” Hawke asked, confused. Warily, he drew his daggers, glancing around. Now that he was on alert, Hawke could hear a muffled crashing sound in the distance.

“Can it sense us?” Anders asked urgently.

“I don’t know,” Stroud replied.

“Or you two could keep doing the ‘Warden senses’ thing and ignore me,” Hawke muttered.

“We need to get out of here,” Stroud said. They both turned to him.

“What, now you’re paying attention to me?” He shook his head, but glanced around and, spotting something like a path, gestured. "This way, then."

They ran.

They were followed. Hawke didn’t know if it was the clumsiness of Stroud’s step, twigs snapping and brush rustling, or if Anders' fears of whatever it was being able to detect the two Wardens had proven true, but either way, their pursuers dogged each step, and with the wild overgrowth slowing their progress, it was gaining ground with each moment. It was close enough now for Hawke to hear heavy, lumbering footsteps as it - as _they_ drew closer, for Hawke could now pick out additional footfalls under the noise of them barreling through the thick scrub brush.

Hawke’s mind was racing. What was it? The fact that the others could sense it made him think of darkspawn, but Stroud had alluded to red lyrium. Perhaps that was the Blight connection Stroud had mentioned. But Anders hadn’t sensed just the templars from the other day… or had he? He’d mentioned ‘hearing’ it, but Hawke had assumed at the time that he’d heard it the same way everyone heard the stuff. Still, Stroud’s reaction was out of place for simple templars, red lyrium or not. There had to be more to it.

He remembered what had become of Meredith, and shuddered. Then again, whatever was following them, maybe it was better not to find out.

It was with that thought that, eyes flicking back and forth in search of a clearer path or hiding place, they came to the rocks.

It wasn't a cliff, exactly, but the towering boulders and agonizingly steep slope that blocked all ways forward. Hawke knew even as he scrambled desperately to climb that it was little use and, falling back to the ground, there was nothing left but to turn, draw his knives, and ready for a fight.

“There he is!” came a voice.

“Is that the Champion with him?” another asked. “And - Anders!”

The group burst into the clearing, and Hawke’s jaw dropped.

The… _thing_ that stood before them had been human once, perhaps. He could see the remnants of its frame, armored arms and legs straining under the weight of the massive crystal growth entirely encompassing its shoulders.

The thing that stood before them had been a person once, but as it moved, Hawke could see no trace of thought left in the corrupted creature, nothing remaining but a mindless urge for destruction directed by the men surrounding.

“Well,” Hawke said, staring. “Shit.”

* * *

He used to be faster.

In his younger days, Hawke had an uncommon gift for speed, something frequently remarked on by those who saw him fight. He was not unusually strong, or gifted with any singular amount of stamina, but he was swift with blade and tongue both, feet barely touching the ground as he moved. It had been that quickness that led him to the dual blades he wore instead of Carver’s sword and shield, that rare gift that had allowed him to make a name for himself in his year with Athenril, and that unique talent that had carried him all the way to the Champion of Kirkwall, to a duel with the Arishok for the fate of a friend, to a sword through the chest that had never healed entirely, and no further.

He’s slower now, he knows. Not slow, never slow, still a force to be reckoned with, but enough that even on his best days, Hawke feels like he’s crawling.

Hawke wonders now if Meredith, too, has noticed. If she’s been watching him all this time, taking stock, preparing for this battle, the confrontation that, deep down, they both must have known was coming.

None of this is what Hawke had been expecting. He’d been planning to face down wave after wave of templars, aided by his friends, his sister, and the handful of mages from the Circle willing to cover the others’ escape. He hadn’t expected to lose Orsino like that. He hadn’t expected Cullen and the rest of the templars to turn on Meredith and stand beside him, however temporarily.

Oh, and the glowing red sword is new, too.

He is slower than he used to be, and Meredith is faster than he had ever thought possible. The red lyrium idol has turned her into something terrifying, a force of nature beyond even the strongest mages Hawke has seen.

She barrels into him like the shot from a cannon, sending him flying, skidding across the Gallows courtyard. His chest aches with more than old pain, and he can feel his ribs protesting with every movement, even as the familiar rush of Anders’ magic envelops him, soothing the worst of his injuries.

(He would rather not think about Anders right now.)

It’s one woman versus all of them, and somehow, she is winning. She moves as a blur, eyes glowing, body crackling with a strange sort of electricity, whipping the red lyrium sword through templar after templar as though it weighs nothing. Hawke can do nothing more than attack and hope, and at least she bleeds real, mortal blood when his daggers meet flesh. It gives him hope that there’s something human, something killable, left in this woman.

It doesn’t last, and he’s thrown back again as her skin ripples with red energy, exploding outwards in a wave of force. She leaps back, barricading herself in some type of field, screaming her own righteousness as Hawke, reeling, forces himself back to his feet

Then the first statue uproots itself.

* * *

The ground erupted.

That part caught him by surprise. He’d been expecting a head-on attack, the red lyrium behemoth lumbering at him with massive, powerful blows, not for crystals to burst through the earth, sending him leaping awkwardly backwards before they could entrap him.

Stroud and Anders were less lucky. Too slow to react to the unconventional attack, their feet had been encased in the substance, fixing them in place. While Stroud struggled to free himself, hammering at the crystal with his shield, Anders gave into Justice entirely, skin crackling with the spirit’s influence as he rained fire upon their attackers.

Heedless of the flames, the creature reared back, arms raised, and swung a massive limb at the trapped pair. Hawke rushed in towards its exposed legs, hoping to knock it off balance before it could deliver the blow, only to be knocked aside as a shield connected with the side of his head. Right. The other templars. Reeling, Hawke managed to deflect the follow-up slash, but was too slow to block the pommel strike that cracked him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending pain radiating through his entire body.

Hawke stumbled back towards the others, just in time to collide heavily with the magic shield Anders had thrown up around himself. Well, at least he hadn’t completely lost all thought to defense yet.

The behemoth drew back for another blow - Maker, had all that really happened so quickly? - and the creature’s arm swung over his head, breaking _through_ Anders’ protective spell and throwing him, feet still trapped, into Stroud beside him.

Was it too late to just start this battle over?

Snarling, Anders’ hands crackled with electricity, shooting a blast of lightning at the creature attacking them. To Hawke’s astonishment, the behemoth broke off its next attack, swaying dangerously as it spasmed briefly.

Well. At least that was a brief reprieve. Hawke took a moment to try to steady himself, taking in the scene in full. Besides the lyrium creature, there were three in total, the one with the shield wearing the thick, embellished armor of a lieutenant, one more lightly armored and carrying a bow, and one with the dual blades and light step of a hunter. It was that last one that most caught Hawke’s attention - he knew his own kind too well, so to speak, and knew how dangerous it could be to lose track of them.

He did a quick inventory of his options. He’d been able to put together some of his signature flasks in preparation for his trip to Kirkwall, and he’d made sure to equip himself with some before they hit the road this morning. He doubted the miasmics would do much, but he had a few of the chameleon flasks mixed up, and, stepping back, he shattered one between them them.

Anders’ lightning cast strange patterns in the smoke that filled the clearing, like clouds during a storm. It might have been pretty in any other circumstance - as it was, it just told him that Anders and Stroud hopefully had the behemoth somewhat under control. Wasting no time, Hawke dove towards the templar hunter, and felt steel meet flesh. That was good.

He also felt something sharp and heavy connect with his back, sending him flying forwards. That was… less good.

In retrospect, taking his eyes off the lumbering red lyrium creature? Probably a bad idea. The behemoth struck again, and missed, aim thrown off by the obscuring haze. Gritting his teeth, Hawke rolled back to his feet, only to be met with the sharp bite of a blade in his side. He cried out with the pain, the hunter’s dagger piercing the old, worn layers of his armor to scrabble over his ribs, tearing a long, ragged line in his flesh. Hawke doubled over, pressing one hand to the wound and watching the hunter warily. His attacker - a she, Hawke was pretty sure - moved for him, but before Hawke could even raise an arm in defense, she was bowled over by a large, armored figure.

Oh good, Stroud had freed himself. Hawke glanced towards Anders through the quickly thinning haze, and saw that the mage had also broken free of the crystal trappings, drawing the behemoth’s attention towards himself with blast after blast. The lightning seemed to be doing the trick, but Hawke could tell that even with the power granted by his possession, Anders was steadily losing ground. He needed backup, soon, which meant that Hawke and Stroud needed to deal with the other templars now.

“Stroud! Keep them off me!” he called, then forced himself to straighten, raising both blades before lunging at the hunter. His side was soaked with blood by now, but it hadn’t been nearly as deep as it could have been. He’d had worse. He could power through this.

The hunter was stumbling to her feet when Hawke bowled into her, bringing them both to the ground, and their blades met in a flurry of parries. Hawke could hear the clash of metal on metal behind him, and knew Stroud had taken his orders. He turned his attention back to his target, and they struggled, arms locked, neither entirely able to pin the other. Maker, she was strong. Through her helmet, Hawke could see the faintest glow of red to her eyes, and it was all Hawke could to to hold her off.

The archer, ironically, was what broke the deadlock. The templar fired tentatively into the fray, but, presumably fearful of hitting his comrade, the shots went wide, thudding into the ground around them both. Hawke’s opponent glanced at the nearest one, startled, and Hawke took advantage of the distraction to bring his knife down, the metal of the blade screeching against the metal of her helmet before finding her throat. She choked, blood soaking the ground, and Hawke ripped the weapon free, bringing himself to his feet and wiping at an eye.

One down.

The archer… took it poorly. With a scream of fury, he lunged at Hawke, who barely leapt out of the way in time to avoid the tackle. The templar turned, arms raised in expectation of a follow-up attack, but Hawke barreled past him instead, and he could hear the man swearing as he realized too late Hawke’s plan.

The lieutenant was heavily armored, but Hawke was by now more than familiar with the weaknesses in even the thickest of templar regalia, and with Stroud keeping the templar’s focus, he was able to take the other man by surprise. The knife in the back may not have been enough to kill the lieutenant immediately, but as the man reeled, Stroud’s blade hit home, and the helmeted head thudded sickeningly against the ground.

As one, Stroud and Hawke turned to the remaining archer, who, wisely, took the better part of valor, fleeing for higher ground, raining arrows as he went. The pair began to move towards the man, splitting to flank, when a wave of force bowled all three of them over.

Shit. Anders. Hawke pushed himself up, risking a glance over his shoulder towards the battle behind. The mage stood, hands drawing patterns in the air above him, the strange, blue-black smoke tendrils of Justice’s influence gathering and pooling around his figure. As Hawke watched, the behemoth lumbered towards him, obviously fighting the confinement of a crushing prison spell - and winning. Hawke and Stroud glanced towards each other.

“I’ll take the archer,” Stroud said, and Hawke nodded, readjusting his grip on his blades as he turned towards the towering creature.

Yes, he had definitely gotten the better end of this deal.

Hawke circled to stand behind the behemoth, assessing it for any possible weaknesses - as well as Anders for his state of mind, frankly. Justice _mostly_ seemed able to recognize Hawke as an ally, but however Anders or Justice or whoever perceived things in this state, he wasn’t always the best at telling friend from foe.

Or remembering his own limits, Hawke thought, spotting the wounds scattered over the mage’s body, nearly hidden underneath the glow of the Fade. In full possession of himself, Anders could have healed them easily, but now he seemed not even to notice them. Anders had told him once that Justice could sustain him through wounds that should have been fatal, but that power came with little thought for defense or healing, the spirit doing enough to keep Anders on his feet and no more. Perhaps the mage wouldn’t fall anytime soon, but Hawke didn’t know what state his lover would be left in if they won this thing.

Then the ground split open with red lyrium once more, and the time for reflection was over. Again, Hawke leapt free of the crystals, but this time he moved towards the creature rather than away, landing awkwardly on one of the growths covering the behemoth’s shoulders. He had just enough time to regret the plan when another blast of electricity consumed the corrupted templar, both man and creature spasming with pain. Muscles only half under his control, blades slipping from his grasp, he scrabbled for purchase, slid down to hang oddly on the creature’s exposed head for a brief second before the combination of forces sent them both tumbling to the ground.

Hawke groaned, trying and failing to push himself up. His entire body ached now, limbs refusing to respond to his command, and he didn’t even know _where_ his knives had landed, but he had only moments before either the behemoth recovered or Anders’ follow-up attack landed - he had to _move_. Hawke’s hand fumbled over his body, finding the hilt of the spare knife he kept at his belt, and twisting desperately, he pulled it free and jammed it towards what was left of the behemoth’s eye. The creature _howled_ , writhing, but before Hawke could press the attack, one of its flailing blows connected, sending him flying to - of course - crash into Anders. They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and magic.

Anders recovered first, snarling at their attacker as he struggled to free himself. Hawke did his best to push himself up, bracing himself against the rock face behind him as Anders renewed his assault.

He couldn’t - damn it, where were his knives? The earth around them had been torn open beyond all recognition, the earth marred with twisted crystalline growths, and his weapons were all but invisible in the resulting mess. What was he going to do, pummel it with his fists? Hardly. He moved towards the spot where he’d fallen, looking around with increasing desperation. His side was soaked with blood now, pain radiating through every muscle in his body, and his head was starting to swim with the combination of factors, vision blurred. He wanted nothing more than to give in and just collapse here, but he could hear the crystalline cracking of the behemoth as it moved, and he knew he couldn’t fall yet. Not with Anders like this.

If he could just find his damned - wait. The hunter. Hawke glanced towards the site of his earlier battle and saw the glint of blades by the slain templar’s side. Feeling a rush of renewed energy at the sight, he lunged towards the fallen foe and wasted no time in arming himself. The weight of the new weapons was odd in his hands, but not unwelcome - this one might actually have been in better shape than his current set, he thought, though it was hard to tell under the thick coating of his own blood.

His train of thought was cut short by a pained shout from Anders. Fantastic. He’d hit the level of blood loss where he was starting to lose focus in the middle of battle. He turned towards his lover and saw-

\- the tip of the behemoth’s arm sunk deep in Anders’ shoulder, pinning the mage to the stone behind him. That- that seemed bad. That seemed really bad. Hawke’s stomach dropped, and, all other thoughts gone from his mind, he ran towards the creature, slashing desperately at what he could reach, his newly obtained weapons screeching and skittering across the creature’s protective crystal, barely leaving a mark. Anders writhed, snarling, hammering at the creature’s arm with waves of force from his staff, to about equal effect. Frustrated, Hawke struck at the crystal with the hilt of his dagger, sending small, barely noticeable cracks across the lyrium encasing its body, throwing in a few kicks for good measure, because at this point, why not?

_Something_ he’d done, apparently, had gotten the creature’s attention. Rearing, it pulled its arm free, dropping Anders to the ground, and Hawke had just enough time to feel heartened by the minor victory before the creature slammed its other hand into him, crushing him into the ground. Before he could recover, another surge of lyrium burst from the ground, and this time, he was too slow to escape. He felt the strange, disturbingly warm crystal encase his right arm, and no matter how he pulled, he could not free himself. Hawke looked up in horror as the behemoth reared back again, preparing for another attack - and then staggered as a large, earthen fist slammed against its back.

“ **Enough** ,” came Anders’ voice, familiar tones lingering under the deep voice of Justice. “ **This corruption stops _now_**.” He slammed his staff down, and the already broken ground cracked, the entire clearing shaking and pitching, splitting open the crystal trapping Hawke’s arm.

The lyrium behemoth staggered, tripping and lumbering towards Anders, slamming a crushing backhand across his chest. Anders flew backwards, but did not fall, pushing himself up. His entire body was alive with electricity now, a loud crackling noise filling the clearing as small jolts of lightning danced across his already fade-touched skin.

As one, they rushed towards each other, staff against crystal, spirit against lyrium, and when they met, it was over. With a loud, earsplitting crack, the crystal encasing the creature _shattered_ , finally weakened sufficiently by the accumulated damage of the battle before. The behemoth shrieked, an inhuman noise, and then at last, it was over, both combatants falling limply to the ground.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Hawke was on his feet, rushing towards Anders as quickly as he could, looking the now unconscious mage over worriedly. Maker, he’d forgotten how _terrifying_ it was when Anders gave into Justice like that, both on his own behalf and on Anders’. Mortal bodies weren’t meant to handle this kind of thing.

Anders was a mess. Aside from the large hole in his shoulder, he had clearly taken several hits from the behemoth. His face and arms were covered with cuts and bruises, and an arrow was deeply embedded in his back. Nothing seemed to be immediately life-threatening, at least, but Anders wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. At least none of the crystal seemed to have broken off inside him, that Hawke could tell. Hawke took a moment to glance over to Stroud, confirming that he had finished off his own opponent, before digging into his pack. He’d never had the slightest talent for healing, really, but he knew enough to get most of a healing potion down the unconscious mage’s throat, to rinse the worst of Anders’ wounds with water before applying poultices. It was probably wasteful to use both, but he didn’t particularly care. They’d find somewhere to restock later, and Anders could chew him out for it when he woke up again.

“Is he-?” Stroud asked, standing at a distance with a wary look. Hawke honestly wasn’t sure how he’d meant to finish the question.

“He’ll be all right,” he replied. He glanced towards what remained of the behemoth. “Maker, what _was_ that thing?”

“It _was_ a templar once,” Stroud said. Seeming to accept that they were safe, he allowed himself to sit, though he did not move any closer. “But how a person becomes _that_ , I cannot say.”

Hawke shook his head, nursing a healing potion of his own as he looked at Stroud. “So I’m guessing it was one of those that attacked you before we met?”

“Yes,” the Warden replied. “I was lucky to escape with my life. I have faced ogres before, and yet…” He shook his head. “To stand up to the Champion, a Grey Warden, and an abomination and nearly triumph-”

“Anders is _not_ an abomination,” Hawke interrupted sharply.

Stroud gave him a long look over, and Hawke could see the skepticism in his eyes. They’d both been in the same fight, seen the same thing, he knew. He could argue whatever semantics he wanted, but Anders was undeniably possessed. This was a senseless hill to die on. But he’d championed worse causes. Abominations weren’t people anymore. They had nothing left but the demon that had taken them. Justice was no demon, and that wasn’t Anders, was never _going_ to be.

“... regardless,” Stroud continued, clearly thinking better of pressing the issue, “This red lyrium is incredibly dangerous.”

“I could have told you that one.”

Stroud was spared the trouble of responding by a quiet groan from Hawke’s side. Anders’ eyes fluttered, opening to reveal clear, warm brown. The mage blinked once, twice, taking in the scene, then tried and failed to push himself up. Hawke rested a hand on his forehead gently.

“Easy there,” he said. “You’ve done enough for the day.”

“What happened?” Anders asked - well, mumbled.

“Killing templars, of course. What else?” Hawke replied.

Anders snorted, then raised a tentative hand to his face, his shoulder, taking stock of his wounds. Hawke watched his fingers spark briefly with the healing magic, then sputter out, the mage’s reserves utterly exhausted.

“I think you’re all out of glow for a while,” Hawke informed him. “Even the good kind.”

“Lyrium?” Anders asked.

“All out of that too, I’m afraid,” Hawke said. “Unless… hang on.”

Pushing down the fresh wave of pain, Hawke stood and limped over to what was left of the lieutenant to rifle through his belongings.

“Looks like just a few vials of the red stuff,” he announced. “Which is _definitely_ not - hang on, what’s this?” He pulled a sheet of paper clear, unfolding it carefully. “Huh. Well, hopefully that’s good for us.”

“What is it?” Stroud asked.

“It says here that the templars are sending reinforcements to some place called Therinfal Redoubt,” Hawke said. “Everyone but a handful of patrols is set to head out by this time next week.”

“That’ll be a relief this time next week,” Anders replied. He’d dragged himself into a sitting position by now, examining his wounds. “Maker, how much elfroot do you think we _have_?”

“Stay awake to head me off next time,” Hawke retorted. He limped back over to Anders, who immediately turned his attention to Hawke.

“Your side-” the mage began.

“It just got flesh, it’ll be fine,” Hawke insisted. “It’s mostly stopped bleeding anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean it won’t become infected. Here, let me see…” Anders began to dig through their bag, but dropped the bottle as soon as he picked it up, hands spasming. “Damn it…”

Hawke set a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t we just agree that we’re all in terrible shape and make camp?” he offered. “We’ll all drink a few potions and get some sleep and you can patch up anything left in the morning.”

Anders sighed. “I suppose,” he said. “But let’s get out of range of the red lyrium. It’s… distracting.”

“Agreed on both points,” Stroud added. “Though I regret that we could not travel farther today.”

“Couldn’t be helped,” Hawke said. “Besides, it’s not like one day will make that much of a difference, especially now that we’ve killed their heavy hitter. How many more patrols could they even _have_?”

* * *

“How many more patrols do they _have_?” Hawke groaned, pulling back into their hiding place.

“I thought you said most of them were leaving?” Anders asked.

“I thought I did, too!” Hawke shook his head. “You’re sure they can’t sense you, right?”

“No,” Stroud said. “I know that I can only sense them when the corruption has spread far enough, and that I don’t sense any of them right now. I can only assume it goes both ways.”

“But you can hear them, can’t you, Anders?”

“I think that’s a Justice thing, not a Warden thing. I hear the red lyrium, and only when they’re very close, but I only sensed that - lyrium behemoth any other way.”

“Right. Okay.” Hawke braved another glance at the patrol below, which did not, at least, seem to be growing closer. “Well, we know _something’s_ happening in Tantervale, right? Maybe they’re… guarding something?”

“Wait,” Anders added. “Could they be looking for the same Warden we are? How many people know where they are?”

“... it is possible,” Stroud said slowly. “Though I can’t imagine… no. No, it is possible.”

Hawke shot him a suspicious look, but Stroud did not elaborate. More ‘Warden business’, apparently.

“Well, we need to do _something_ ,” Anders said after a moment. “This is our second day in sight of the walls, we can’t wait here forever.”

“I could always-” Hawke began.

“No,” Anders cut him off.

“It worked in Kirkwall,” he said. “And there’s even more more templars there.”

“You don’t know Tantervale as well as Kirkwall. Don’t push your luck,” Anders replied.

“Then I say we all sneak in together. Tonight,” Stroud said.

“All of us?” Hawke asked. “No offense, Stroud, but you’re not really suited for this kind of thing…”

“I’m coming with you, whatever way you choose,” Stroud said. “The trail may already be cold, I will not delay longer.”

“What if we hide in a merchant carriage?” Anders suggested. “There’s bound to be one sometime soon, and that always worked on the templars back in Ferelden.”

“That wouldn’t… wait,” Hawke said slowly.

“What is it?” Anders asked.

“You just gave me an idea that will probably get us all killed!” he said cheerily. “Just let me get something red…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, an action sequence.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this one, folks. It's been a busy few weeks, and this was a long chapter. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Oh, by the by, if anyone's interested in my general artistic flailing, [there is now an illustration for the prologue](http://daggerpen.tumblr.com/post/114776569636/hawke-desperately-needed-a-hot-meal-a-bath-and-a).


	10. Friends in Strange Places

“Are you entirely sure this will work?”

“Not even slightly.”

“You know, I hate it when you do this,” Anders continued.

“Make terrible half-baked plans, or be generally glib about it?” Hawke asked.

“Neither. I’m fine with the half-baked plans. Half-baked plans to avoid templars used to be a specialty of mine. I just wish you’d tell me them in advance.”

“Oh! No, I told you everything already,” Hawke answered.

“What, really? That was it?”

“Pretty much.”

“... all right, _now_ I have a problem with this.”

“Less worrying, more looking,” Hawke said. “It has to be around - ah, there we are.” He knelt down, cautiously picking up his prize, a red handkerchief, ratted and dusty, tied and weighed with a small rock. “Here goes,” he said, opening it.

There was a note inside, written in a crude, hasty scrawl. “‘Cart stops here at third bell’,” he read aloud. “‘Find a boot’ - just the one? - ‘under the stump what looks like a wolf head. Bring it for pay’. Well, that’s… something.”

“I somehow have even more problems with this plan now,” Anders informed him.

“I don’t hear Ser ‘Master of Avoiding Templars’ over here with anything better,” Hawke retorted. “Come on, let’s get back to Stroud.”

* * *

“This seems… dubious,” Stroud said upon their return. “What… exactly… can these friends of yours do?”

“Turn boots into carts, apparently,” Hawke said. “Well. A boot.”

“Hawke.”

“Look, I don’t know, all right?” He threw up his hands. “For a while in Kirkwall, I had a ‘friend’ who paid any time we cleared out any of the gangs hitting the streets at night. One night, she told me that was enough, and the Friends of Red Jenny said thanks. A few weeks later, I got a note in a red handkerchief telling me I was all right for a noble, and if I ever needed help out of a pinch, I should leave something red and a note somewhere people could see.”

“The Friends of Red Jenny?” Stroud asked.

“A spy network. I think,” Anders answered before Hawke could. “Something about taking down nobles, usually. I caught word of it a few times in Darktown.”

“See?” Hawke said. “It’s a thing.”

“A very unreliable thing,” Anders replied.

Hawke cleared his throat. “Anyway. I remembered something about them being blamed for sabotaging some caravan near Tantervale a few years back, and I figured, it’s not like we have a better plan.”

“And the next stage of your… plan… is to… bring a boot to a clearing and wait?” Stroud asked slowly.

“Pretty much.”

“That’s not a plan at all!” Stroud said.

“Even for us, it’s a stretch,” Anders agreed.

“Does that mean that you two won’t go through with it?” Hawke asked.

“It does,” Stroud said, folding his arms. "This is absurd. There is absolutely no way I will be doing this."

* * *

“And that’s third bell,” Hawke said, unfolding and refolding his arms. “Moment of truth time.”

“I cannot believe we’re really doing this,” Stroud said.

“Sadly, I can,” Anders said.

“You two have no faith in me,” Hawke lamented. “I’ve had _far_ worse ideas than this, you know.”

“I won’t argue with that,” Anders replied.

“How long are we going to wait here before-” Stroud began, then broke off suddenly. Down the road, the quiet thud of hooves sounded, wheels crunching over gravel behind.

The look Hawke shot them was _insufferably_ smug.

The cart that stopped before them was small, cramped, and in ill repair. A pile of hay was heaped haphazardly in the back, with room enough for the three men to cover themselves entirely. The driver wore a heavy cloak, hood pulled over her face as she turned to them. “You my friends?” she asked.

“Probably,” Hawke answered. He held up the boot. “I have the… payment.”

She took it, then nodded. “Get in.”

“What, just like that?” Hawke asked. “You don’t need to-”

“Hush up,” she interrupted. “I don’t ask questions, I don’t want to know. They tell me, bring a cart that can hide three people, and here I am. Get in or get out.”

Hawke turned to the others. “... well, you heard the lady.”

“... I cannot believe we’re doing this,” Stroud mumbled again, and followed.

* * *

No one searched the cart.

Technically, that had been the promise of the deal they had made - such as it were - but Hawke could still hardly believe it. For all that he had defended his desperate excuse for a plan, he had really had no expectation that things would go this smoothly. They’d scoped out the checkpoints before deciding on this, after all, and the templars had everything locked down tight. Surely, there would be templars to kill, or bribes to be exchanged. And yet, without even a hint of challenge, Hawke could hear the increasing bustle of the city.

The cart continued on. And on, and on, and on, leaving Hawke with the abrupt, unsettling realization that they had never really communicated a departure point. That made sense, right? If the templars were still watching the city, they could hardly just be let off anywhere, could they? Surely, they were only waiting for the drop-off point.

Sure enough, after what felt like ages but was doubtfully more than an hour, they came to a stop. Despite the muffling of the straw around them, Hawke could hear the rustle of movement from the driver in front of them, the footsteps of - two people?

“That’s them,” came their driver’s voice.

Well, shit. Hawke grabbed for his knives, mind racing. He could hear Anders and Stroud around him, making similar scrambles, stealth at the wayside, when a quiet, strangely familiar voice sounded-

“Master Hawke? Is it really you?”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Cautiously, Hawke unearthed himself from the pile of hay, staring at the elf standing at the edge of the warehouse. “Orana?” he asked, disbelieving. The blonde woman nodded, hands folded in front of her.

“Orana?” came Anders’ voice, sounding as confused as Hawke felt. “What’s - what are you doing here?”

“What’s going on?” asked a bewildered Stroud, sword raised awkwardly as he struggled free. “Who is this? Are we safe?”

“What’s happening?” Hawke managed, trying to make sense of the situation. “Are you a Jenny?” he asked.

“No,” came another familiar voice. “Just a friend.”

Hawke whipped around, hay flying everywhere as he stared. “ _Charade_?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry for such a short chapter after such a long gap. Finals, graduation, etc., etc. I really wanted this to be longer, but sometimes you just gotta move the plot along. We should be seeing some real content in the next installment, though.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting!


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